


ANGRY! LESBIAN! SPACE! PRISON!

by gyruum



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Glee, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Orange is the New Black, Orphan Black (TV), Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, Gangs, Group Marriage, Group Sex, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Lesbian Character of Color, Lesbian Sex, Lesbians in Space, Mild S&M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Multiple Crossovers, Murder Mystery, Open Relationships, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Past Character Death, Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Prison, Prison Sex, Serial Killers, Smut, Space Prison, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 69
Words: 266,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyruum/pseuds/gyruum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After committing murder, Spencer finds herself imprisoned in...well.  Spoiler: It's kind of gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> This is a multi-fandom, femslash crossover, crack AU. It’s science fiction, it’s comedy, it’s murder mystery, it’s romance, it’s angsty drama, it’s horror, it’s smut. It’s basically everything. (Except clowns. There are no clowns.) 
> 
> Hopefully it will be enjoyable regardless of your familiarity with the characters and sources, but even more so if you know them well. I’ve put a **[character photo index](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html)** (in the order they appear) online, if you want to have that open in a tab for reference. There are 96 characters in this beast, so I do recommend it.
> 
> Primary sources _(major characters, universe elements, and plot points):_ Pretty Little Liars, Glee, Battlestar Galactica, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Harry Potter, Orphan Black, Orange is the New Black, and The L Word.
> 
> Secondary sources _(supporting characters, lesser elements):_ Aliens, Charlotte’s Web, The 100, Grey’s Anatomy, Lost, Lost Girl, Doctor Who, Firefly, The Wire, Silence of the Lambs, The Fall, Queer as Folk, Fried Green Tomatoes, and Lost and Delirious.
> 
> Tertiary sources _(Background characters, brief mentions):_ Fresh Off the Boat, The Hunger Games, Terminator, Bound, D.E.B.S, Person of Interest, Once Upon a Time, Chicago Fire, 24, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Legend of the Seeker, Resident Evil, Arrested Development, Elementary, Jessica Jones, Rizzoli  & Isles, and Farscape.
> 
> Some characters are canonically queer in their sources, others are not, but it doesn’t matter. I wanted to play with them all in my big gay sandbox. Because I could. This fic also contains a lot of period talk, because that’s what happens sometimes when an author with a uterus locks sixty women together on a spaceship. 
> 
> The story takes place when I started it, just after season 3 of Pretty Little Liars. If it makes you laugh out loud, it’d be really cool if you let me know.

Spencer isn’t sorry she killed Toby.

She’s just sorry she got blood on her favorite black hoodie in the process. Seriously, it was a bitch to wash out.

And it’s weird, because she remembers what happened -- the croquet mallet and the cracking sound his skull made (...all eighteen times) -- but after that, it’s a blur. She knows she’s missing time but doesn’t know how much, and where the hell _is_ she, anyway? And why is there a fucking bag over her head?

If the two women dragging her around don’t let go soon and tell her what the hell is going on, she’ll be adding even more bodies to her count. That is, if she can get her strength back. Her senses are weakened, but Spencer can tell she’s groggy -- fuzzy, like her brain has been stuffed with cotton balls -- and seriously dehydrated. It scares her that she’s not sweating, given how damn hot her face is right now. Her throat is scratchy and dry, and the hot air she’s breathing inside this bag burns on its way down.

She hears what sounds like a heavy, metal door close behind her – but it’s hard to tell – and she’s slammed into a chair. One of the cops lets go of her arm and starts handcuffing her to something.

“Where is my mother!” Spencer yells. “This is bullshit! I’m a Hastings, goddamnit! You will never get away with treating me like this!”

There’s a sarcastic mumble from the cop furthest away, but Spencer can’t make it out over her grunting and the rattling against metal rings. The door opens again, and Spencer whips around even though everything is black. She’s going to run out of breathable air soon.

 _“Thank you, Eggs,”_ a new voice says. _“Thank you, Detective Ravioli. You may go.”_

 _“It’s_ Rizzoli _.”_

A brief pause. _“I hear no difference.”_

The door in the distance opens and closes again. Soft footsteps circle Spencer as she jerks furiously against the chains. Her wrists are killing her, but she’s not giving up without a fight. “Where the hell is my mother!” It’s time for answers, _now_.

Without warning, the hood is painfully ripped off, and Spencer gasps, startled, at the rush of cool air against her face. Her pupils constrict suddenly, as all her senses adjust to the sharp contrast of her new surroundings. She’s in a gray room with a giant curtain on the wall to her right, doors on two of the other sides, a table a few feet from her, and a bright light overhead. But mostly, all Spencer can see is a tall, blonde woman in a navy-blue tracksuit, six inches from her face.

“So,” the woman says very matter-of-factly, but friendly, “I hear you like to kill people.”

Spencer doesn’t so much as blink. No daughter of Veronica Hastings would ever respond to such obvious baiting. Still, something about this woman exudes power, despite the fact that she’s practically wearing pajamas. Through her haze -- much milder now, thankfully -- Spencer fixes on the woman’s eyes and just glares back.

“Where. Is. My. Mother.”

The woman starts pacing around the room, and Spencer instantly feels the familiarity of a cat-and-mouse game.

“You’re a tough girl, Hastings. Determined, ambitious, mentally unstable but with an arrogant flair and cheekbones that could cut glass. You remind me of a young Sue Sylvester. Only…” The woman leans in close again to whisper, “At least I had the basic sense to dispose of the bodies.” Sue holds her gaze for a moment to let that sink in, then glances down. “And a better rack.” She taps Spencer’s forehead with her finger three times as she says, “I guess good grades aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.” And she grins, clearly enjoying herself.

“Don’t touch me,” Spencer growls, trying to back away even though there’s nowhere to go. “You can’t keep me here!”

 _What the hell kind of police interrogation_ is _this?_

“Ohh, I don’t think you’re going anywhere…” Sue says, resuming her pacing with a small skip in her step.

“I know my rights. You can’t question me without my lawyer present, and you clearly have no idea who you’re dealing with,” she laughs. Spencer gives her best Hastings glare, the one that makes babies cry and accidentally killed her pet fish when she was five.

Sue just laughs and says, “This is my favorite part,” like she’s sharing a special secret with an old friend. Walking over to the heavy, maroon curtain, she pauses and turns to Spencer. “Tell me again how your mother’s on her way here right now?”

And with a dramatic flourish, she throws the curtain back to reveal a giant window and the empty, terrifying vastness of space – still, dark, and infinite. A few distant stars shimmer against the black, but otherwise....

Spencer gapes in horror, frozen. There’s just... _nothing_.

Sue, meanwhile, looks like a kid on Christmas morning. “I’m sure she’s just stuck in traffic,” she says with feigned reassurance.

But Spencer can’t hear anything over the pounding in her ears, and if she had any food in her stomach, it’d surely be all over the floor right now. Her head is spinning, but she holds herself together. This isn’t real -- it _can’t_ be. She’s not _in space_. How would she even _get_ into space? It’s just some CGI bullshit intended to shock her into confessing a murder. There’s even a fake asteroid – a hanging piece of Styrofoam, no doubt – as an extra touch. It’s not even moving. _Well, nice try, gym coach._ Spencer’s seen better special effects at the Children’s Science Museum.

She steels her nerves and shoots back, “You really expect me to believe we’re actually in space?” She raises her eyebrows. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Maybe!” Sue says cheerfully. “And I think your inner Science Camp geek will cry tears of joy into her model rocket ship kit when she realizes what an opportunity this is. Life in space!” she exclaims, arms up. Sue pauses and lets her arms fall. “What, you think I can’t tell what a huge nerd you are just by looking at you? You should be kissing my Reeboks with that foul, over-privileged mouth.”

“Oh, give it up -- _We’re not in space._ There’s oxygen. And _gravity_ ,” Spencer retorts. She knows how space works. _Four_ -year-olds know how space works.

“I’ve pulled some strings,” Sue replies, walking over to lean a hand on the table. “Can’t have my prisoners floating around all willy-nilly like balloons at a birthday party.”

“Prisoners,” Spencer repeats. Surely she heard that wrong.

“Well, ‘prison bitches’ seems a little on the nose, even for this crowd,” says Sue.

“This is a prison,” Spencer says soberly.

Sue leans forward a bit. “Can’t get anything past you, can I?”

Suddenly, everything makes both perfect sense and no sense at all. They caught her, but how? Spencer had been meticulous in her planning and execution, except for the part where she smashed Toby’s skull to absolute smithereens instead of one generous thwap. The clean-up got away from her, but she did the best she could. And until this moment, she thought she’d pulled it off. Everyone gets away with murder in Rosewood. It’s kind of the town’s deal. Only, maybe this really isn’t Rosewood after all. The scenery’s a bit of a clue.

In that moment of acceptance, Spencer’s reality crashes down around her. She stares out the window again, but she’s not really looking at anything. Her brain is stuck on five simple words, which she says out loud if only to make sure she’s not dreaming, or dead. “ _I’m in prison. In space_. _”_

“Right again, Hastings.” Sue points with a smile. “You’re on fire today!”


	2. The Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

The next several minutes don’t really register with Spencer until she’s sitting on an exam table dressed in only a paper gown. Her hands and feet are cuffed and chained to another metal loop on the floor. For whatever reason, “regulation issue” here means “lined with black leather,” so they’re fairly comfortable, as far as handcuffs go. Or maybe that’s still the drugs talking. She can still feel them in her system (after the... _space travel_ ), so who knows what all transpired in that lost time.

_Wait, how did I get changed? Was I strip searched?!_

The door creaks open and in walks the most attractive woman Spencer’s ever seen, but still all she can think is, _How the fuck did I end up in space prison?!_

“So, Spencer Hastings,” the doctor – last name Lewis-Burke-Robbins, according to her lab coat – reads from a chart.  “I’m just going to run some routine tests, check to make sure you haven’t brought anything on board.”

_Space?! Prison?!_

“Just try to relax. I’d promise this won’t hurt, but some people get squeamish about getting blood drawn. I’m sorry if this seems invasive, but I have to be sure. Disease can spread quickly here.”

Spencer just glares at her and crosses her arms. “See lots of space diseases, do you?”

Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins just smiles. “Here and there. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Alien flu?” She’s clinging to the familiarity of sarcasm like a lifeboat.

“Not typically, no,” the doctor replies. She seems resilient, yet gentle, like she deals with shitty attitudes every day but they don’t get to her. “Mostly…” She pauses. “You might say our population can be…aggressively promiscuous, which presents its own complications.”

_Fantastic._

Spencer’s mind is reeling with the implications of all this. It just keeps getting worse and worse.

As the doctor methodically checks her skin for who-knows-what, Spencer stares at the only color in the gray, metallic examination room. A sign about two feet tall hangs at eye-level on the wall beside her, a giant crest, like an old coat of arms or something. The emblem itself appears to be a large, golden... _uterus?_...against a maroon background. And is it that...chains with a lock wrapped around it? Clearly the drugs haven’t yet worn off completely.  She’s almost too distracted by the design to notice the large letters underneath.

**USCSS BSG 27 SSV UD-4X SA-23DD USS UTERIUS**

**_Where prisoners aren’t rehabilitated, they’re reborn._ **

A pinprick on the crook of her elbow snaps her attention away. “ _Uterius?_ Are you kidding me?”

“It’s a fitting name, given the nature of what we do here.” The doctor caps off the blood sample, labels it, and sets down the vial.

“Which is what, bleeding people for days at a time?” Spencer asks. She’s quiet for a moment, trying to make sense of it all. It’s not working.

“Not usually,” Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins says playfully. She shines a bright light in each of Spencer’s eyes, watching the pupils constrict, then checks in her ears. “If you see the ship from the outside, it makes perfect sense.” She grabs the Velcro cuff to take Spencer’s blood pressure.

Even with the drugs still in her system, Spencer feels her heart pounding hard. This all has to be a terrible dream. There _is_ no such thing as _space prison. Right?_  She’s a well-read and highly skeptical girl. She would’ve heard about it. An article somewhere, surely, documenting NASA’s own little Guantanamo. No way something like that stays out of public knowledge.

Unless maybe that was the point. Ship away dangerous people with rich, powerful families who’d bail them out if they had the chance.

And that’s when she knows. Her mother has no clue where she is. And she never will.

Spencer fights back the tears to keep her voice strong. A Hastings never shows weakness, even now, even to someone who doesn’t know what being a Hastings even means.

Her voice cracks anyway. “I’m never getting out of here, am I?”

“I’m the doctor, not the lawyer.” A small smile. She sets down her tool and changes gloves. “Lie back.”

Spencer sighs and flops back on the table. “I’m in Hell.” She stares at the ceiling as her vision blurs. _“In space.”_

“Wait til you try the tuna casserole.” The doctor reaches over and grabs an intensely scary, metal contraption. “Spread ‘em.”


	3. The Law Won

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

She’s back in the first room -- featuring the red curtain with _space_ behind it -- waiting for who knows what. She’s getting used to the restraints, and it isn’t lost on Spencer that handcuffs -- not family -- might be the permanent fixture in her daily life from here on out.

They’ve assigned her a black, second-hand jumpsuit with no pockets that is suspiciously threadbare in the crotch area. It’s not the first thing about this place that seems shoddy, now that’s she really looking around. The floors haven’t been swept. The walls are unpainted. The doors make an awful squeak when they’re opened. The table in here has one leg a half-inch off the ground. And thankfully, the wall with the large crack in it isn’t the one with the window. This facility, whatever it is, doesn’t seem to have the budget for basic repairs or amenities. Must not be many people out in space to tax, Spencer muses. But she prays they at least have a sterilization machine for the doctor’s tools.

A shrieking noise sounds from inside the wall -- probably just steam pipes or something, but it’s threatening all the same. Everything about this shithole is a far cry from the spaceships she’s seen in movies; instead of clean, slick design, this is industrial and filthy. It feels real, and that’s rattling Spencer to her core. She’s never been claustrophobic before, but it seems like a great time to start.

After what feels like an hour, the far door opens and in walks yet another woman Spencer doesn’t know. She’s wearing a dark blazer and carrying a briefcase, which she slams on the wobbly table, sitting down across from Spencer without even looking at her.

“Spencer Hastings, I’m Melanie Marcus, your appointed attorney.” She opens the case and takes out several thick file folders. “And don’t even start about your goddamn mother, because this is _space_ and she’s not here -- I am. Got it?”

She looks up at Spencer now, and, _whoa_. There is clearly a somewhere else she’d rather be. Maybe lying on a bed of nails, or washing down dinner with a gallon of bleach. Something cheerful like that.

Spencer shifts uncomfortably in her chair, chains clinking as she moves. “Yeah.”

“You’re here” -- A file slams down -- “on charges of first-degree murder and seventeen counts of excessive bitchery.”

Spencer blinks. _“Excuse me?”_   Who the fuck does this lady think she is? “That’s not even a real--”

“MY job” -- Another slam -- She’s just moving them in and out of the open briefcase now, back and forth, for no real reason -- “is to get YOUR sorry ass acquitted so I can get my first paycheck in eighteen goddamn months” -- _slam_ \-- “and feed my fucking wife and two-year-old child” -- _slam_ \-- “except, _wait_.” Angry Melanie stops and leans across the table, staring Spencer down hard, “YOU ALREADY CONFESSED TO MURDER. SO, THANKS A FUCKING LOT.”

“HE DESERVED IT,” Spencer yells back, arms struggling against the cuffs. “You don’t know! You have NO idea what he put me through, what he put my friends through. You know NOTHING.” But as she says it, Spencer realizes that _she_ might be the one who doesn’t know anything. When the hell did she confess? She doesn’t remember getting here; it’s possible she was interrogated under the influence of sedatives or something. Or maybe this is all a trick to get her to confess now. This so-called lawyer doesn’t seem to be on Spencer’s side.

“Oh, boo hoo, poor little bi-curious girl with her boyfriend problems,” Angry Melanie mocks, pretending to cry. “God, for ONCE can you just keep your fucking mouth shut until we get to trial? Or, hey, NOT KILL PEOPLE IN THE FIRST PLACE? Would that be too fucking much to ask?”

“Bi- _what?”_  Spencer squints, confused. “Maybe you suck at your job because your gigantic files don’t have any actual _facts_ in them.”

“Oh, please. You’re _here._ ” She’s laughing, but she’s still spitting fire. “And hey, congratulations, now you’ve got all the time you need to work through your precious lady-feelings. You’ve got nothing _but_ time.” She laughs again. “You stupid, little shit.”

“What the hell kind of lawyer _are_ you?” Absolutely nothing about this place is right.

Angry Melanie throws the stack of files into the case one last time. “One who can’t get you out of a life-sentence in space prison, or even a hope of parole, thanks to your big, cock-sucking mouth.” She slams the briefcase shut. “Enjoy your stay.”

And like that, she storms out the rusty door.

Spencer sits motionless. Her eyes fall on the crack in the wall, and she absently wonders if it’s leaking air after all, because she’s having trouble breathing.


	4. A Room Without a View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Minutes later, she’s led through what seems to be the entrance to a giant vault. The acoustics in here are strikingly different -- it’s loud, and voices of women boom and echo off the high, steel walls. Everything resonates, as there’s nothing to absorb the jeers and profane hollering. It’s a long hallway with barred cells on the right side and what appear to be scattered utility closets on the left. Spencer can’t tell how many cells there are, but the far end seems a mile away. There are more fluorescent lights high overhead but not in the individual cells. Enough light pours into them that Spencer can see the faces and living conditions of her new situation. Both are equally unsettling. And smelly. It’s warm in here, and quite ripe. Air-conditioning must not fit into the limited budget.

This place just gets better and better.

Her standard-issued black Keds squeak as a guard – a short, Asian woman with the name Boomer etched on a nametag – escorts her down the prison block. Spencer doesn’t know what the hell kind of name “Boomer” is or why the woman’s uniform has the letters P.M.S. stitched onto the pocket, but she doesn’t ask. All the answers to her questions thus far have left her more confused than before.

The first cell they pass, stenciled _#20_ painted above it, holds three older, seemingly well-adjusted women, who all watch Spencer as she shuffles by. They’re the ones in the cage, but _she_ feels on-display like a damn zoo animal, and it’s horrible. Two of the women sit together on a bunk, but the third is standing up against the bars and leering at Spencer with a smile. Her short, dark curls match the black jumpsuit nicely.

_“I have a tattoo.”_

Spencer jumps at the woman’s gravelly whisper, stopping suddenly, but Boomer keeps walking and just says, “Nobody cares, Violet,” loudly behind her.

Violet seems unfazed, though, and licks her lips at Spencer, who is staring, frozen in place.

_“Would you like to see it?”_

The woman’s fingers slowly start to unzip her jumpsuit, and at the first sight of side-boob, Spencer chokes on her own saliva and runs to catch up with that Boomer lady.

The population appears to consist largely of older women, all rough around the edges but surprisingly attractive, considering the circumstances. Spencer gives each passing cell a glance to scope out the scene but is mindful not to stare. If only Hanna, Aria, and Emily had helped her kill Toby instead of backing out on the plan like little bitches, then she wouldn’t be in this mess alone. Mostly, she regrets that his betrayal occurred after her eighteenth birthday. Any juvenile detention center would be preferable to this, even one on the damn moon.

There’s light coming from a cell up ahead, growing brighter as they approach. Once in sight, Spencer sees a huge sprawl of blazing candles in cell 16, what must be dozens of them. The heat emanating from inside is unbearable. The three occupants of the cell are younger than the other women Spencer has seen so far but just as intimidating. One girl is sitting on the toilet in the back, fully dressed and not using it as intended. Rather, her posture is very commanding, like she’s sitting on a throne. Her face is half-covered in black paint, giving her raccoon-eyes. She rises to her feet and watches Spencer pass by, expressionless as the flames flicker around her. It’s deeply unsettling, and Spencer’s all too glad to keep moving.

She can hear someone banging on the bars up ahead but can only see a pair of angry hands. As they approach cell 14, a short woman with a determined look on her face comes into view.

“Guard!” More banging. “I know you can hear me!” She’s just not stopping. “Why not put that skinny girl in here and move me to her destination? You know the number four is unlucky in Chinese culture! How can they do this?”

Boomer doesn’t stop to entertain the complaint or even look over. “No,” she says, loud enough for her to hear.

The woman punctuates each word with another clang as she screams, “I’M GOING TO DRIVE MY SHITTY VAN INTO YOUR HOME!” As Spencer moves on (gladly), she can hear more yelling behind her, _“It will make your house look even worse than it does right now!”_

Spencer says a silent prayer, grateful she’s dodged that bullet. This feeling lasts for maybe five seconds. A few cells later, she sees more girls closer to her age but significantly more terrifying. One seems to be on the worst fucking heroin trip of her life, with veins bulging from the sides of her ghostly face and curtains of pitch black hair.

_Please, god, no._

Another girl in the cell is watching Spencer from the back wall. Her head is tilted, like an inquisitive child trying to figure out their newest addition. She’s thin with big eyes and long, stringy hair that she hasn’t washed in three months at least. Possibly six. 

“A is for accident,” the girl says plainly, looking right at her.

Spencer stops in her tracks and stares, wide-eyed. This nut would have fit right in at Radley.

Boomer takes a few steps back and yells into the cell, pointing, “And S is for _shut the hell up_!” She grabs Spencer’s arm forcefully. “Keep moving.”

 _Gladly_ , she thinks and takes another awkward step forward. Her shoes were broken in with someone else’s feet, and like everything about this place, they don’t feel right yet.

Over another squeak of the rubber sole, Spencer’s sure she hears the “A is for accident” girl add, “... _but it wasn’t_.”

 _That’s creepy as hell_ , Spencer thinks. Was there some kind of announcement about the more colorful points of her file before she arrived? A memo to everyone on official prison letterhead, perhaps? A fucking Powerpoint presentation?

Thankfully, the cast of characters in the next cell, number 10, looks almost familiar to her – a blonde (albeit with pink streaks) who oozes attitude, a cute, short brunette, and, well, a lesbian. It almost feels like home. You know, if Emily were black and they were all convicted felons.

So, naturally, this is Spencer’s stop. Of course, it is.

Amidst the random shouts from down the hall, Boomer barks, “Stand back! Stay up there, Quinn!” and unlocks the cell door, sliding the heavy bars just wide enough for Spencer to be shoved through. “Good luck,” Boomer laughs quietly as she turns the key.

Spencer quickly assesses the situation: Three predatory sets of eyes, two bunk beds on opposite walls with the barest of linens, a wall-mounted sink with one toothbrush perched on the edge, and a silver bowl in the corner that, well, Spencer hopes at least has a flushing mechanism.

_Home, sweet home._

_In space prison._

_Awesome._

She can’t help but notice that her cellmates’ uniforms are also suspiciously thin and faded in the crotch area. Not that she’s staring at lady crotches. A Hastings would _never_.

Forcing herself to look away, she sees the word _Aphasia_ scrawled in yellow chalk on the wall above the lesbian in the top-right bunk, surrounded by some green dollar signs, purple handguns, and a picture of what can only be...a blue giraffe?

_Sure, why not._

“Where you been?” Aphasia snaps. She crosses her arms and gives Spencer a look that says, _Oh well, you missed it_ , and says, “River’s got your book.” Then she turns back around and picks up an orange piece of chalk and starts drawing a friend for the giraffe.

Spencer just stands by the door, not sure what that means or what she should say or do. With all the shit she’s been through, teenage girls hardly scare her, but this is _prison_. Should she talk to these people? Would they beat her up if she didn’t? Was she supposed to have a shiv or a pack of Luckies to trade for soap? Were they going to pee in front of her in that bowl? Was one of the beds for her? It was, right? How do you jail?

“That was fast,” says the brunette on the bottom-left bunk. She looks an awful lot like Aria, but with crazy eyes and much less hair product. “Fucking Sylvester can’t give us one goddamn day without some new, sad bitch yapping away.” She slowly walks up to Spencer, never breaking eye contact. It’s downright predatory.

Aphasia turns, confused. “Wait, this ain’t the same girl?”

The blonde with pink streaks, lying on the top left bed, flicks her lit cigarette at her cellmate. “No. Schecter got airlocked.” She looks Spencer up and down, licking her lips once, and smirks. “This is fresh meat.”

_Okay, TWO lesbians._

Aphasia pats at the small fire in her hair like it’s a daily occurrence. “So, who the fuck are _you_?” she sasses.

Spencer opens her mouth but stops to consider her options. She could try her usual tactic of boasting her family name and GPA, but she’s getting the sense that these girls may have never set foot in a high school unless they were selling drugs. Nor would they have ever heard of the Hastings family -- or Rosewood, for that matter.

Plan B is to pretend she doesn’t speak English. So far, she’s leaning this way. She could pretend to be French for the rest of her life. _Ça peut pas être si difficile que ça?_

Plan C, kill them all and take the best bunk for herself. She’s already serving a life sentence for murder, so really, what would it matter? But if these girls regularly set each other on _fire_ , it would probably take more than Spencer’s big brain and freshly trimmed nails to overtake one-against-three.

Plan D, let them kill her on the spot. At least before the tuna casserole does.

Or, Plan E, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

It’ll do for now.

“Spencer,” she says.


	5. Mack Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Four hours later, Spencer’s on the bottom bunk under Aphasia’s, replaying their earlier conversation in her mind. It turns out these girls all knew each other and came here together. They had tried to rob a bank ( _“because that’s where they keep THE MONEY_ ,” Aphasia explained). Quinn was the brains, Mack was the muscle, and Aphasia had driven the get-away vehicle…right into the back of a parked police car around the corner. They hadn’t even gotten any money out, or come close. Mack shot fourteen people just because she was bored waiting for Quinn to hack the computer system.

Spencer almost misses the higher-order thinking skills of the A Team.

The metal bunk across from her squeaks and snaps Spencer out of her daydream as Mack climbs up into Quinn’s bed. Spencer’s not looking to get close to any of these criminals, herself, but she doesn’t want to feel like a fourth wheel in her new home, either. She’s used to being somewhat in charge of her little gang, or at least on equal footing. For a moment, she lets herself try to imagine running _this_ crew, which is both hilarious and sad.

_But we’d all be rich and free right now, you bet your ass._

Spencer watches innocently as Quinn sets her book aside, quietly welcoming the company, but then Mack unzips her jumpsuit and straddles Quinn without hesitation, pinning her hands against the thin mattress.

_Make that three lesbians._

“O-kay,” Spencer says to herself with raised eyebrows, quickly trying to find a Something Else to look at but failing. The thing about jail -- not much in the way of decor. Passing over the toilet and sink, she settles for a blank spot on the wall to fixate on. Oh, what Spencer wouldn’t give for some noise-canceling headphones. Without even realizing it, her eyes drift left again.

_Is that hand going where I thinks it’s going?_

_Shit_ , yep, Mack totally catches Spencer staring.

“Do you mind?!” Mack growls, her hand still definitely _there_.

“Sorry,” Spencer says quickly, turning over to face the wall. Her hipbone digs painfully into the frame beneath the flimsy mattress, but her groan is lost in the sea of sex noise. She closes her eyes and pictures a field hockey game or something equally interesting and violent. Tuning out the debauchery eight feet away is harder than she realizes; she’s in a fucking jail cell – there’s no escaping this.

They eventually get so loud that Spencer wonders why the guards don’t think someone’s being brutally murdered. She lets out an _“UGH”_ of frustration and pulls her pillow over her head, face down.

Aphasia leans over from the top bunk and says, “Girl, this ain’t nothing. Quinn spanks her on Wednesdays.”

Spencer has never missed her friends and her mother and her dead ex-boyfriend and even her unhinged stalkers more than she does right now.

And no, she is not about to admit that the Quinn girl sounds really hot when she moans. That is clearly the space dementia talking, or the drugs, whatever they gave her to get her here. (Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins had conveniently failed to mention the possibility of medically-induced lesbian tendencies. _What else would it be?_ ) However, Spencer does have a guess to whom the doctor was referring with the whole “aggressively promiscuous” bit.

_I mean, just look at them. Or, wait, don’t. Because that is rude. And also kind of gay._

She lies on her back and stares at the underside of the bunk above. It’s a solid gray sheet of metal, boring as the day is long. It has a nice effect, though, as it provides a blank canvas for Spencer to daydream. She stares at it, allowing her eyes to unfocus like it’s one of those hidden pictures of a sailboat, hoping to reach a zen place. All it does, however, is heighten her hearing and make the situation even worse. After twenty long minutes of trying, she sits up, frustrated, and hits her head on the metal frame. She curses loudly, but it just blends in with the string of smutty expletives across the way. This bunk bed thing is going to take some getting used to. Rubbing her tender head, Spencer sighs and wraps her arms around her knees.

But then, she notices something at the end of the bed that she swears wasn’t there before -- a large spider web, spun between the vertical posts. Delighted to have something interesting to look at, Spencer scoots forward to examine the intricate design. Spiders are expert craftsmen, after all, and this web appears to go well beyond the standard fly-catching layout. In fact, unless Spencer’s dreaming, it seems to have writing in it. She angles her body so the light catches the threads just right. Sure enough, the words **_“FUCK YOU STACEY MERKIN”_** are there in clear, block letters.

A gray spider lurks nearby, looking quite pleased with herself. Spencer wonders why the fuck there are arachnids in space – ones who can write and curse, no less – never mind the insects to feed them. But who is she to question such things at this point? Nightmares aren’t supposed to make sense. For all she knows, the spider ate their previous cellmate…in this very bunk. And yet, staying put still feels safer than the violent lesbian sex-capades in the other.

Not that she’s still thinking about that. Really.

Spencer decides to take a chance on making a friend here in this bleak, new chapter of her existence. “Hi Charlotte,” she says quietly, remembering her favorite childhood book, “I’m Spencer. We both seem like strong, intelligent women who deserve better than this run-down sex prison.” She sighs and admires the handiwork of the shimmering thread in the glow of the corridor’s lights. “Whatever Stacey did to you, I hope you had the last laugh.”

Charlotte says nothing.


	6. Power Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It takes every ounce of restraint Spencer has not to push past Mack and huddle up against Quinn as they step into the Mess Hall for dinner that evening. (She’s not sure why, exactly; it’s not like Quinn is any _safer_.) Spencer had thought the handful of fellow prisoners from before was terrifying, but that is nothing compared to the sheer breadth of inmate insanity before her. Teenagers and middle-aged women and everything in between crowd in line to get their trays of suspicious-looking food. Some appear on the verge of a homicidal outburst, snarling _“Fuck you!”_ s across the room every other second. Others seem calmer, but Spencer knows you have to watch out for the quiet ones.

And frankly, based on what she’s gleaned of this place so far, Spencer’s surprised there isn’t a single mullet in sight.

She spots the women from her earlier entrance to the cell block -- the scary, veiny-faced one is pouting for some reason or other; the vaguely unwashed one who’d chattered about A is...staring into space, unaffected by the fistfight that breaks out behind her; and the tattoo lady catches Spencer looking and greets her with a lick of her lips.

_Dear god, no._

Spencer shudders and grabs onto the closest thing in reach for some sense of safety from the leering. Unfortunately, it turns out to be Mack’s jumpsuit sleeve, and Spencer just barely dodges the sharp elbow aimed at her side.

“Get the fuck off, weirdo,” Mack growls.

The tuna casserole turns out to be every bit as bad as the doctor said. Crunchy, for some reason. And a little spongy? Spencer tries to stick close to her cellmates, for protection more than companionship. They have their own table carved out in the middle of the room -- a regular thing, it seems, just like fucking high school -- and Spencer takes a seat facing the walkway so she can get a lay of the land.

There’s a single metal clock in here, like an old school bell system. It’s the first clock she’s seen since she arrived, but she doesn’t even know when that is -- it’s still just the first day, right? She figures they’re keeping track of hours just to have a schedule and simulate the experience of still being on Earth, regardless of whether their location aligns with any specific orbit. God, what fucking solar system was she even in now? _Was_ she in a solar system? No windows, no sunlight, no clue.

The inmates are all checking her out as they pass by, whispering to each other with little laughs. Spencer doesn’t want to know. She’s not in a mental state to deal with any bullshit. Nor does she want to deal with this “casserole,” but it’s either that or starve. Do they even _get_ three meals a day?

Aphasia doesn’t seem to have any qualms about their meal, as that girl is just _inhaling_ the stringy, gray mush without pausing for a breath. There are no utensils besides flimsy plastic spoons, and Spencer’s kind of amazed that Aphasia doesn’t snap hers clean in half as she saws through her food.

Across from her, Quinn hasn’t touched her dinner, puffing away on a cigarette instead. Spencer catches her eye once or twice, and Quinn smirks briefly before turning her attention back to whatever Mack is talking about. Well, at least Spencer’s not the only one suspicious of this tuna concoction.

Someone from another table hollers in their direction, and Aphasia pauses in her gusto to yell, “Bitch, I might be!” over her shoulder.

Quinn seizes the opportunity, taking one last drag and planting the cigarette butt deep into the remaining clump on Aphasia’s tray.

Before Spencer can say anything, however, Aphasia turns back with a grin. “She wants me so bad. Sucks to be you!” Without looking down, she shovels that last bit into her mouth -- ashes, cotton, and all.

It’s all Spencer can do not to vomit into the empty dessert compartment on her tray. She’s really going to need to keep an eye on this Quinn girl. It shouldn’t be too hard, considering they live in the same room.

At seven o’clock, the bell rings loudly, and the prisoners begin to make their way toward the garbage can on the far side, still shouting obscenities and threats in every direction. Spencer hasn’t even heard many of these words before, not even from Alison (and that’s really saying something). In fact, it hasn’t been quiet for a moment the whole meal -- just a constant, dull roar of sexed-up profanity -- and none of the authorities seem to care that these women might be about to kill each other or screw each other. Or both.

 _Wait, where_ are _the authorities?_

The crowd merges into a single-file line to dump their trays, and Spencer follows Mack as closely as possible without getting elbowed again. Thankfully, the more aggressive prisoners seem to have their sights set on other targets, at least for now. The thought that this terror is going to be part of her daily life -- much less three times a day -- is overwhelming. And everyone else here seems so... _used_ to it.

As she nears the door, Spencer notices a new guard waiting there -- a short, feisty blonde who looks like she should be in cheerleading camp, not a prison.

“Chow time’s over, ladies. We hope you enjoyed the tuna this evening.”

“Yeah, your mom says hi,” someone shouts from the back of the line, and the room erupts in laughter -- everyone but Spencer, who would rather eat fire ants than antagonize one of these people.

“My mother’s dead,” the guard replies. “But I’m glad you found her so delicious, Vasquez.”

The whole line _“Oooooh”_ s and shuffles on, still snickering as they turn the corner. When Spencer gets close enough, she’s able to take a good look at B. Summers. The girl is absolutely tiny, and Spencer can’t imagine Little Miss Pom-Poms overtaking a puppy, much less any member of this population. Her uniform does say P.M.S. like Boomer’s, but it just seems crazy.

Like everything else in this god-forsaken place.

_And, wait, is that a wooden stake strapped to her belt? The fuck?_

“Lights out in two hours, astro-nuts,” she calls cheerfully.

Much to Spencer’s surprise, everyone in line seems to be returning to her cell without protest. The noise has died down, too, she notices. The blonde’s the only guard in sight, standing watch at the end of the hall with her arms crossed, eyes daring someone to start something.

“Looking good tonight, Buffy,” Mack says to the guard, winking and licking her lips.

_Buffy? What IS it with these names?_

A loud buzzer sounds, and the cell bars slide shut in unison and lock with an echoing clank.

Spencer flops down onto her bed and barely misses getting kicked in the face when Aphasia takes a running leap up onto the top bunk. Settling into what must be their evening routine, Quinn pulls a book out from under her mattress, Aphasia starts freestyle beatboxing, and Mack draws on her left bicep with what seems to be a thick piece of charcoal. The result is more dirt smudge than intricate design, but she’s thoroughly engrossed in her process.

This is what passes for prime-time entertainment in space prison.

God, what Spencer wouldn’t give for a laptop right now. Or anything she could read. A newspaper. A cereal box. A shampoo bottle. _Something_. It feels weird not having a cell phone. They’re not a part of this new reality. She has only her thoughts, and right now, her thoughts suck.

Does anyone in Rosewood miss her? Have they even noticed she’s gone? If so, they probably assume she’s as dead as Toby -- which, at this point, she might as well be.

Suddenly, a paperback book hits her in the head.

“Ow!” Spencer reaches down to pick up _Passion’s Burning Flame_ \-- which features a scantily-clad woman in the arms of a ripped, female firefighter on its cover -- and throws it back at Quinn, hard. She misses.

Quinn arches an eyebrow but doesn’t react any more than that. “Thought you’d want something to do.”

_I never realized how sexy an eyebrow can be._

_...Wait, what?_

“So, you throw it at my face?” _Why does this girl like throwing things at people? And why lesbian romance novels?_   Spencer would almost prefer a lit cigarette. “Social skills, much?”

Mack glances up from her full sleeve of “art,” which is just a solid black mess. “Is that the one with the spank inferno?” She turns to Spencer and says, “That one’s good.”

“I’ll pass.”

After a few awkwardly quiet minutes (beatboxing aside), Quinn props her head up and says, “So. What’d you do?”

It was only a matter of time, but Spencer doesn’t want to answer that or any other questions. She’s still half-convinced she’ll wake up from this nightmare any minute now, warm in her bed back home on Earth. She’ll shrug off A’s latest text and ace a pop quiz and eat lunch with her friends and get away with murder, and everything will be right again.

Nothing in that plan involves talking to these people. So, Spencer finds a deep scratch in the metal underside of Aphasia’s bunk and gives it her full attention.

She really wants it to be lights-out already so she can just hide in the darkness and pretend she’s not there. But the lights are still on, and Quinn is still staring. “None of your business,” she finally says, if only to get Quinn to stop, and rolls over to face the wall.

Mack sounds thoroughly unimpressed. “I bet she just cheated on a test or something.”

Spencer whips back around, fire in her eyes. “Hey! I don’t cheat!” (Well, except for that one time with Melissa’s history paper.)

Quinn looks down at Mack with a grin and says, “Went for a little joyride in Daddy’s BMW without permission.”

“And blew the butler in the back seat,” Mack adds. She’s pointing at Spencer with the chunk of charcoal, quite thrilled at the chance to be mean to someone.

“How scandalous!” Quinn laughs back.

“I KILLED SOMEONE!” Spencer shoots upright, hitting her head again. “OW! GODDAMNIT!” She takes a breath and rubs the sore spot, wondering if the pain will subside before she’s done with this damn conversation. “I killed my boyfriend with a croquet mallet.”

Aphasia tuts and says, “Girl, we know that. They just messin’ wi’chu.”

The other two girls snicker to each other like Spencer’s existence is their own little inside joke. Mack’s condescending stare is downright hurtful, while Quinn just looks amused by the whole thing.

Spencer still doesn’t understand. “How did you --”

Suddenly, a blue file appears in front of her face as Aphasia holds it over the edge of the bunk. The name HASTINGS, SPENCER is printed on the label. A giant, red stamp of “CONFIDENTIAL: PROPERTY OF USCSS BSG 27 SSV UD-4X SA-23DD USS UTERIUS” covers the entire white front of the folder.

Spencer instantly recognizes it as one of the same files Angry Melanie had earlier. Curiosity gnaws at Spencer’s insides; God only knows what it says. What all do they have on her?

She reaches for it but Aphasia yanks it away as quickly as it appeared. “How did you get that? Give it to me!” Spencer asks angrily.

Aphasia’s holding the file high over her head and kicking a foot at Spencer’s face to keep her at bay. She looks almost offended by the question. “You know magic people never say how they do shit.”

Mack chimes in, “Girl’s got skills.”

Spencer stops jumping and turns to her, incredulous. “And yet you failed to actually steal any money from the bank.”

“Hey, that ain’t my fault! _She_ made me wait in the car!” Aphasia shouts at Quinn.

Spencer only looks away for a moment, but when she glances back at Aphasia, the file is gone. And she’s twiddling her thumbs. And whistling.

“Oh, here we go again,” Quinn drawls. “I _told_ you, I can’t--”

**_COME ON, GIRLS!_ **

Mack groans.

**_DO YOU BELIEVE IN LOVE?_ **

Spencer looks around for the source of the voice, but there doesn’t seem to be an intercom speaker anywhere in their cell. Aphasia, however, is now bouncing on her bed at this latest development.

**_‘CAUSE I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY ABOUT IT! AND IT GOES SOMETHING LIKE THIS..._ **

When the music kicks in, Spencer realizes it’s coming from the main corridor, loud enough to carry to every cell.

There is radio in space prison.

And it plays Madonna.

Aphasia cries, “Ooh, this my jam!” and jumps down, then busts into a full-blown dance routine that she’s clearly polished over time.

All thoughts of the file are quickly drowned out, as Spencer can’t even hear herself think anymore. “What _is_ this?” she hollers over the booming beats.

Quinn’s humming along in her bed, as if this were an everyday occurrence.

_Shit, IS this an everyday occurrence?_

“Sylvester made us wear these bracelets with WWMD on them,” Quinn says, rolling over to face Spencer. “She said it meant, ‘We Worship Madonna Daily.’ ”

Before Spencer can correct her, Mack says with a huff, “More like, ‘When Will Madonna Die?’ ”

“I haven’t seen one in months,” Quinn says. “I guess people flushed them.”

“No, they right here!” Aphasia says between dance moves and reaches into her jumpsuit to pull out a handful of twenty or so rubber bracelets from her bra or god knows where else. The bunch becomes a colorful prop as she starts doing the Macarena to “Express Yourself” without missing a beat. “Watch While Madonna Dances!”

“The fuck?” Mack says, launching herself off the bed, only to get smacked in the face by a flailing arm. “Gimme one!”

“Why?” Aphasia asks with a frown. “You know I’ll just steal it again.” She bends down and slowly drags fistfuls of bracelets up her body in time with the music, then punches the air in Mack’s direction with her tongue sticking out.

Mack gives up and flops back down with a huff. Spencer watches Aphasia for the rest of the song, at least until her eye catches Charlotte skittering around near the end of her bunk just as “This Used to Be My Playground” starts. She watches for a few seconds, almost mesmerized by the spider’s fluid movements, yet her eyes wander over and settle on Quinn.

Somehow, watching a girl quietly read romance novels interests Spencer more than dancing or drawing (as Mack has now started on her left foot with that charcoal). Quinn’s a bit of a puzzle, though. Spencer’s six hours into her life sentence and she feels she has a pretty good handle on Mack and Aphasia -- enough to know she really wishes she didn’t know them at all -- but Quinn remains a mystery.

“Hey, check this out!” Still stretched out in bed, Mack kicks her foot up in the air and catches her heel on the edge of Quinn’s bunk. “It’s good, right?”

Spencer can’t see what’s on Mack’s foot, but, judging by the array of smudges covering her arm and Quinn’s own impassive expression, it’s probably not a contemporary masterpiece.

“Right?!” Mack says again while wiggling her foot. “Quinn!”

But Quinn isn’t looking at Mack -- she’s looking at Spencer.

For a moment, they share the quiet amusement of ignoring Mack, whose frantic jerks are smearing black dust all over Quinn’s sheet. Not that either Spencer or Quinn even notices. Their eyes lock, and a silent conversation passes between them -- _Can you believe these girls? What even is that on her foot? And what about that dancing?_ A smile starts to curl Spencer’s lips for the first time since she arrived here. It feels good. Almost good enough to let this sudden connection pierce the many walls she’s spent weeks, or even years, constructing.

“I’m fucking talking to you!” Mack shouts.

Quinn doesn’t seem to be in any rush to respond. Without breaking eye contact, she folds the corner of her current page and sets the book aside, then fishes a cigarette and Zippo lighter out of her bra. Spencer arches an eyebrow as she watches. Quinn lights it with a deft snap of her fingers and inhales deeply, then leans over and blows the smoke across Mack’s foot.

“Eat me,” Mack growls and yanks her foot back down.

Spencer starts to laugh but catches herself and pretends she’s been watching Aphasia instead.

And, _wow_. She’s doing some kind of slow-motion, interpretive dance that is more like yoga-meets-hip-hop, but drunk. At the line, _“This used to be the place we ran to_ ,” Aphasia breaks into a half-speed Running Man.

Charlotte, meanwhile, has finally fallen still on the outskirts of her latest creation.

Clear as day, Spencer reads the words:

**_MY PLAYGROUND_ **

She cocks her head to one side and studies the web. _How curious for a spider to have a favorite Madonna song_. Spencer wonders just how long Charlotte’s been on board and how many Power Hours this poor creature has suffered through.

_How many will I suffer through? ~60 years remaining lifespan, times 365 days, equals..._

_Oh god._

“Material Girl” kicks in and distracts Spencer just enough to decide it’s time to get some answers about this place.  She looks up at Quinn. “Hey, why do the guards’ uniforms say P.M.S. on them?”

“Because that’s their Permanent Mental State,” Mack answers before anyone else can.

Quinn sets her book down. “Prison Maintenance & Security. Sylvester thinks she’s pretty clever.”

“Some security force,” Spencer says. “One of them has a _tiny stick_.” If these people are supposed to protect her, shouldn’t they have more than a glorified toothpick?

“Mmm,” Mack says wistfully, then, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I can think of a few places I’d like to stake _her_.”

“Buffy can’t hear you.” Quinn says, then turns to look at Spencer. “She’s hopeful. Buffy has a thing for murderous brunettes.” A shrug. “It happens.”

Mack gets up and leers at Quinn. “And we all know I have a thing for snarky, violent blondes.” She stands on the bottom bunk and starts to pull herself up, but Quinn’s already grabbed her by the jumpsuit, humming in agreement.

She flips Mack and climbs on top, kissing her hard and tangling one hand in her hair. Maybe she’s about to try out some moves from _Passion’s Burning Flame_ , but Spencer hopes they’ll literally catch on fire instead.

She turns back to face the wall and tries to lose herself in the music. But it’s hard to forget what’s happening behind her when “Like a Virgin” starts playing. Thankfully, Aphasia doesn’t have a dance to this one.

Suddenly, the bunk jolts and Spencer hears the rustling of body movements with an accompanying _“Hee!”_   above her as her bunkmate sings along.

_Nevermind._

Awhile later, just before it’s time for lights out, Spencer tries to piece together some semblance of a normal routine. There isn’t soap, but she splashes water on her face and tries to scrub away the layer of prison filth she can feel clogging her pores. When she reaches for the lone toothbrush by the sink, she hears a voice behind her.

_“You don’t wanna do that.”_

Aphasia jumps down from her bed and picks up Spencer’s pillow, reaching deep into the pillowcase. She fishes out a purple toothbrush, then walks over and hands it to Spencer. “This one’s yours.”

Spencer’s confused, but she slowly reaches out and takes it by the handle. The toothbrush is clearly used, probably due for the standard three-month replacing. “Thanks…”

_Did this belong to Jenny?_

Spencer stares at it, rotating it to examine different angles. There’s something morbid about holding a dead girl’s toothbrush. Is she really supposed to _use_ this?

Aphasia puts the pillow back where it came from and hoists herself up with a step on Spencer’s bed. “Keep it hidden or they’ll take it. We all supposed to be sharing, but I ain’t about that life.”

Spencer looks back at the sink and sees the prison-issued toothbrush is absolutely disgusting. The handle was probably once white but now it’s grey with brown stains, just like the flattened bristles. Seeing it up close, she wouldn’t have put this in her mouth, anyway.

Quinn quietly climbs down from her bunk and pulls a pink toothbrush from her bra. She walks over to the other bunks and holds out a hand to Aphasia, who gives her a tube of toothpaste as she passes by. It seems routine, like they do it every day, and Spencer’s quite glad to see dental hygiene is high on the list of priorities here. It might be the first piece of good news she’s gotten all day.

Once Spencer’s brushed and curled up under her flimsy, white sheet, there’s another loud buzzer and most of the lights in the corridor go out, leaving only the emergency lights faintly glowing in the distance. She turns further on her side, facing the wall, and closes her eyes. If she tries hard enough, she can pretend she’s back at home in her own bed, happy and safe and sound. There’s school tomorrow. She has lunch plans with her friends. Her mom needs help carrying in the groceries before dinner. Everything is fine. She’ll be fine.

“G’night, Spanker,” Aphasia says overhead through the darkness. “Welcome to the Big Top.”

“It’s ‘Big _House,_ ’ ” Mack says.

The springs squeak overhead as Aphasia sits up. “You sure?”

Quinn rolls over. “‘Big Top’ is a circus.”

“Pssh.” Aphasia’s body slams back down as she settles in again. “I had it right.”


	7. Who's On First?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It takes about a day and a half for the thrill (and terror) of being in space to wear off. Now Spencer’s just _bored_.

She finished _Passion’s Burning Flame_ hours ago -- and dear god, what a travesty of literature that was -- so the reprieve from thinking is, sadly, short-lived. At least back in Rosewood she could use homework to distract her from how fucked up her life was. Or spy on people. Or masturbate. But no way is she doing _that_ with people around.

She’s fine for now, but eventually she’s going to explode.

A girl has needs.

And shower time is out of the question, as last night she learned that they take group showers every other day. A dozen women at a time, all just naked in there! Together! At once! Some not even bothering to wash! Or worse, _very_ enthusiastically washing each other!

…After which they told her space prison has a “towel shortage.” Aphasia has one stashed under her mattress (secretly, it seems) that she shares with Quinn and Mack when they return to the cell. But guess who’s last on the seniority list and doesn’t even get offered the sopping final product, which would still be better than nothing?

Spencer really is just having the best time in here.

Mack’s voice interrupts her train of thought. “Hey, Princess, can you hold it til lunchtime? I’m making wine.”

Mack’s behind her in the bathroom area, so that has to be a gross euphemism. _Except...what if it isn’t?_ Against her better judgment, she looks back, praying Mack at least has her damn clothes on. “What?”

Thankfully, Mack’s dressed, but she’s on her knees with an arm shoulder-deep in the silver bowl, which is almost worse, because _ew_. “Hold. Your piss. Til lunch,” she says, irritated, and keeps digging (or whatever, _ew ew ew_ ).

Spencer blinks and tries to keep down the dinner she didn’t eat. “You’re making wine? In the _toilet?”_

“How the fuck else do you expect me to do it?” she snaps, like Spencer is thicker than the walls.

“I want the Chardonnay-nay this time,” Aphasia calls out.

Spencer looks at Quinn, who has quickly established herself as the voice of reason on this ship of fools. “Is she serious?”

Quinn turns another page in a tattered copy of _Pleasure Mountains_. “Unfortunately.”

A minute or so passes as Spencer watches in disgust. It appears she’s cleaning the basin, or at least trying to, considering all Mack has is a sock and some toothpaste.  Despite all the elbow grease Mack’s putting in, she’s mostly just tiring herself out. “You don’t wanna use that toothbrush to do that?” Spencer asks.

Mack gives a small laugh and scrubs harder. “Put it in your mouth for ten seconds and I’ll tell you where it’s been.”

Spencer can’t think of any place they could’ve put the toothbrush that would be worse than the inside of a toilet bowl, but now she doesn’t want to know. Another few minutes pass, watching Mack meticulously apply Colgate and scrub like it’s the most important task in the world. “How often do you do this? Drink from the toilet, I mean.”

“Beats that turpentine shit Raven makes in the engine room,” Mack says. She gestures to Aphasia, who tosses her bags of food bits from under her mattress one at a time. There must be at least a dozen under there, like a damn clown car. Spencer’s eyebrows inch a little higher with every toss. She can’t tell what kinds of food are in there, but she thinks she recognizes tuna casserole in two of them. Nothing about this can be good.

“And it hasn’t killed you yet,” Spencer says. “That’s shocking.”

Quinn folds a page corner down and turns to Mack. “My offer still stands.”

Mack makes a face at her and dumps the contents of the first bag in the toilet with loud, plopping sounds.

“What offer?” Spencer asks. Maybe if she talks enough, it’ll drown out those awful noises.

Quinn grins slightly. “If Mack’s just drinking that because she wants to get sent to the doctor’s office again, I’m happy to knock a few teeth out instead.” She shrugs. “It’d be faster.”

Aphasia looks at Mack. “She won’t want you then,” she offers helpfully.

“I met her the other day,” Spencer says, trying not to let it show how excited she is to finally know about something in group conversation. “She’s nice.”

“Oh, you got the nice one?” Mack says and dumps another bag in, casting the empty Ziploc aside.

“Dr. Lewis-something,” Spencer says. “She’s blonde, really pretty.”

“Lewis-Burke-Robbins,” Quinn says. She casts Mack a look that says, _Doesn’t hearing her name just get you hot and bothered?_

Spencer sees the next bag has a lot of green in it. But not vegetable-green, more like mold-green. “Yeah, her.”

“I never get the nice one,” Mack says.

It never occurred to Spencer that there’d be more than one doctor onboard. “Who’s the other one?”

“Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins,” Quinn repeats. She reaches into her bra and retrieves a half-cigarette she started yesterday.

Spencer looks at her now. “I thought she’s the nice one?”

The Zippo _clinks_ closed, and Quinn takes a long, first drag, exhaling up toward the ceiling. “According to Mack, there’s the nice one and the mean one.” Quinn gives a small shrug and looks back at Spencer. “They’re both okay.”

Spencer’s still confused. “So, wait, who’s the mean one?”

“Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins,” Mack and Quinn say together.

“Then who’s the nice one?”

“Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins.”

“Shut up, both of you!” Spencer shouts. “It’s not funny.”

Mack rolls her eyes and tosses aside the final empty Ziplog bag, which still has trails of light-purple gravy in it. “We’re not fucking with you; that’s their name.” She stirs the concoction with a wooden spoon Aphasia pulled out of nowhere, carefully scraping the sides and keeping it even.

Spencer can’t see too well from her angle on the bottom bunk until Mack lifts a spoonful to her mouth to sample a taste. The liquid is brown and chunky and an insult to wine everywhere. And it smells.

“These really are different people,” Spencer clarifies, “who just happen to have the same weird name.”

“Yep.” Quinn exhales a final puff of smoke and flicks the butt skillfully across the room, right into the toilet sludge. Mack just keeps stirring. Looking at Spencer reassuringly, Quinn says, “Don’t worry about them.”

“Nuh uh,” says Aphasia. “One of them’s cray-cray.”

Quinn laughs softly and opens her book again. “I forgot you’re scared of her.”

“Not the nice one -- she alright.” Aphasia’s a bit defensive. Spencer hasn’t heard her nervous like this before. “Just the creepy one.” She clutches her abdomen and shivers.

Quinn looks back at Spencer and explains, “Aphasia went through a key-swallowing phase until one of the doctors got involved. She’s a big fan of Saw.”

_Oh god._

“Instead, Mack and I had to dig the key out ourselves,” Quinn continues with more than a hint of disdain. She meets Spencer’s eyes as her voice drops. “Don’t use the toothbrush.”

_OH GOD._

“Not our best day,” Mack agrees, spooning another test taste into her mouth. “Shoulda let her rip your guts out.”

Aphasia sits up and turns to face her, offended. “Oh, like I don’t have to see your bare ass every week?”

“Not _inside_ of it!” Mack shakes off the frightful memory and resumes her stirring as the cell falls quiet again. A minute later, she turns to Quinn and asks, “D’you hear what the doctor did the other day?”

“The scary one?”

“Yeah.”

Quinn hums a _no_. “To who?”

“Sarah Connor,” says Mack.

“Which one?” asks Quinn.

“The scary one.”

“STOP IT,” Spencer screams. “EVERYBODY JUST STOP.”

Her cellmates stare at her like she’s lost her fucking mind. Spencer runs her hands through her hair and closes her eyes for a moment. She’s been in prison all of forty-eight hours, and she’s already about to cut a bitch.

Spencer takes a deep breath. “There’s more than one doctor.”

“Yes,” they say in unison.

“Who all happen to be blonde.”

“Yes.”

“And they’re all named Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins?”

“Yes.”

“... _WHY_?”

“HASTINGS!” Boomer’s voice startles all of them, but only Spencer jumps, quickly losing grip on her last shred of sanity. “Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins needs to see you.”

Spencer screams into her hands.

****************

On the plus side, she doesn’t have to wear a paper gown this time.

“Spencer Hastings?” Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins asks as she confidently strides into the room.

Sure enough, it’s a different woman, though Spencer has no idea which one is which. She just nods.

“Your tests all came back clean. Hopefully you’ll be able to stay that way.” The doctor gives a friendly smile, flipping her clipped papers back to the start.

This probably isn’t the scary one. Yay?

“However,” she continues, “it seems my lovely wife failed to ask when your last menstrual cycle was.” She looks up expectantly, pen ready.

Spencer’s eyes widen.

_Wife?_

“Um...last week, I think?” It’s hard to keep track of time considering she spent who knows how long in transit just getting here...wherever _here_ really is.

The doctor jots down something in her file and says, “Okay. Eventually, you’ll end up on the same cycle as the other inmates, but it’ll probably take a month or two to adjust. They’re due next week, so...” She hesitates for a moment, then adds, gently, “Watch your back.” She sounds concerned, which certainly makes Spencer concerned as well.

“Watch my back?”

Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins closes the chart and makes her way to the door, opening it as she says, “Shit gets a little real around here during Shark Week.”


	8. Classes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Prison is like starting high school all over again, only with less homework and even meaner girls. There’s the ordeal of seating in the lunchroom, judgmental glares in the hall, and even the stress of choosing classes to take. Because, as it turns out, part of this “rebirth” boasted in the motto is academic. Or, at least vocational. Possibly technical? _Something_. (Spencer has yet to see an actual course catalog.) She asks Mack if there’s anything related to European History, her favorite subject, but the girl just laughs in her face.

Because each class happens once per week and is scheduled against something else, new inmates get to audit the classes they’re interested in before making a commitment. Even still, Spencer is too scared to walk into a prison classroom alone. It’s the first day at a new school, but she could be stabbed if she sits at the wrong desk. So, Mack begrudgingly agrees to let Spencer tag along for their one hour of allotted rec time each day this week. It seems to make the most sense, as Quinn and Aphasia have very light schedules and Mack takes practically everything, like the Honor Roll student who signs up for every AP course to get the maximum GPA. Upon learning this, Spencer immediately feels her competitive streak creep in.

If anyone is going to be the Spencer Hastings of space prison, it’s going to be Spencer Hastings, goddamnit.

It’s Thursday, and they’re using the group bathrooms outside the Mess Hall on their way to whatever will be Spencer’s first rec hour experience. The doors have been removed from most of the bathroom stalls, and the one and only mirror in the long line of sinks is behind an inch of Plexiglass. Spencer notices a piece of paper taped to the wall behind the first sink and steps forward to get a closer look. It’s a list of currently-running classes.

“Oh hey, they updated it,” Mack says. She scans her finger down until she finds two listings crossed out and new ones written in below them. “Sweet!”

_________________________

** MONDAY **

**Knives 1** in Small Arms Room (Instructor: Faith)  
**Lucy’s Play-Doh Funhouse** in Mess Hall (Instructor: Lucy F.) _*See Becky to be added to waitlist*_ ~~~~

** TUESDAY **

**Knitting** in Utility Room 2 (Instructor: Santana)  
**Zombies** in Gym 2 (Instructor: Alice)

** WEDNESDAY **

**Alcoholics** in Library (Instructor: Starbuck)  
**Group Therapy** in Small Arms Room (Instructor: Shaw) ~~~~

** THURSDAY **

**Knives 2** in Large Arms Room (Instructor: Octavia)  
**~~Pussy with Jenny Schecter~~** ~~in Library~~ \- _INDEFINITELY POSTPONED_  
****DIY Piercings** in Utility Room 1 (Instructor: Aphasia)

** FRIDAY **

**Fisting** in Gym 4 (Instructor: Graham)  
**Fires** in Utility Room 2 (Instructor: Dark Willow)

** SATURDAY **

**Bees** in Utility Room 1 (Instructor: Idgie)  
**~~Jazzercise~~** ~~in Gym 7~~ ~~(Instructor: Sue)~~ _CANCELLED DUE TO LACK OF INTEREST_  
**DIY Tattoos** in Utility Room 2 (Instructor: Violet)

** SUNDAY **

**Candlemaking** in Utility Room 2 (Instructor: Lexa)  
**River Tam’s Book Club** in Library Study Room

_**Will start next week_

_________________________

Spencer doesn’t want to be on the Honor Roll anymore.

She stares at the list for a moment, taking it all in. _What the hell are these course topics? Why are inmates allowed into the arms lockers? Am I required to do_ any _of this?_ Then, her mind fixates on the most unsettling question of all, and Spencer turns to Mack with raised eyebrows. “Lucy’s Play-Doh Funhouse? Really?”

Mack charges at her, slamming her hand loudly against the counter with eyes blazing. She brings a finger to Spencer’s face and grits her teeth. “Don’t you _fucking_ talk about Lucy’s Play-Doh Funhouse. I’ve waited a _year_ to get in there. You don’t KNOW!”

She hovers for a minute, daring Spencer to move or respond, or even breathe. Spencer’s quite terrified, but she isn’t sure if it’s because Mack might beat the crap out of her or because Mack is defending children’s modeling clay. It’s an awkward moment. Finally, Mack relents and checks the time, saying, “I got Knives on Thursdays,” before nodding for Spencer to follow.

“You don’t go to Aphasia’s class?” she asks. It seems odd that she wouldn’t support her friend, regardless of the topic.

“That’s a new one,” Mack points at the asterisk footnote like Spencer’s an idiot.

Without another word, they join the line of women filing out of the bathroom and head up the eastern hallway toward the rooms used for classes. Various inmates break off into the gyms, opting to spend their rec time working out. The rest of them, including Mack and Spencer, keep walking until they reach the Large Arms Room. Why a prison would give inmates access to a weapons locker is beyond her, much less for a weapons _class_ , but she doesn’t make the rules.

_Here goes nothing._

In many ways, Knives class is exactly as it sounds -- Identifying different kinds, discussing their various purposes, how to clean them, even how to throw them at targets. This last part worries her the most until she learns they, thankfully, don’t have any actual knives on board to use. In fact, the so-called Large Arms Room where the class is held is just an open space with no weapons of any kind. Spencer sees storage compartments big enough to hold assault weapons built into the walls, but all the doors have been removed, rendering them useless.

The Knives instructor, a girl named Octavia near Spencer’s age, describes in detail how she had to hunt and forage in a radioactive forest after living in a floor for most of her life. Spencer wants to ask her neighbor what the hell Octavia’s smoking, but then she remembers she’s surrounded by hardened criminals. The woman beside her, Sarah Connor, seems like a tough lady -- not as outwardly scary as some of the other inmates Spencer’s encountered, but definitely not someone with whom she wants to cross paths. It’s the crazy eyes. This woman has seen things. So, Spencer keeps her comments to herself. It reminds Spencer that, while she doesn’t plan on actually signing up for any of these “classes,” this is a learning opportunity, nonetheless. It’s more valuable for her to learn who to avoid in the common areas than to know what a Rampuri is or that a knife exists just to cut linoleum.

Over the next few days, Spencer audits other activities and meets other inmates, each as terrifying as the last. Mack’s Friday class is Fires, thank god. (Spencer really did _not_ want to go to Fisting class.) First on her mind is why anyone would want to start fires here in the first place. There are a dozen basic safety concerns, not to mention the oxygen issue, since, you know, _space_. But Spencer keeps her mouth shut because it’s Day Four and she has a silent bet with herself to last at least three weeks before getting her ass kicked.

She’s not at all surprised to hear there is a firefighter on board -- some woman named Leslie Shay -- considering how very, very lesbian this population seems to be. But that’s not who’s teaching the class. It turns out Fires isn’t about how to extinguish them, it’s about how to start them. The class is led by the scary, veiny girl, Dark Willow that Spencer saw in the cell next to hers. But much to the dismay of an overeager girl named Clarke, Dark Willow doesn’t have any incendiary devices or accelerants of any kind, or even a Zippo -- just... _telekinesis_? Spencer refuses to believe it until a giant fireball flies from the Dark Willow’s hands across the galley, slamming into the far wall in a thick cloud of smoke as the onlookers _“Ooooh”_ and politely applaud through hacking coughs.

This continues for forty-seven minutes. That’s Fires.

Just like she didn’t want to audit Fisting class, Spencer is equally relieved the next day to hear that Mack isn’t signed up for Bees.

Instead, Saturday is DIY Tattoos, which is a brand-new class just starting today. Spencer only accompanies Mack under the condition that she is not to be tattooed under _any_ circumstances. (The dismissive, “Uh huh,” is very reassuring.) Spencer only barely manages to escape unscathed, as Mack holds up her end of the bargain but her classmates do not. The instructor, Violet, who had tried to show a tattoo to Spencer ten seconds into her prison sentence, spends twenty minutes displaying her inked breast to the class and rubbing it seductively. She’s sharpening up a rusty Bic pen and eyeing her desired subject when the forty-five minutes is up. Spencer calls it a win that she escapes the room without Hepatitis. At least, she’s pretty sure.

Sunday is River Tam’s Book Club. Of all the offerings this week, this one is definitely the most promising. As they enter the library, Mack mentions off-hand, “We’re starting a new book this week.”

Spencer turns the corner and freezes in place as her heart stops -- There’s the girl who said the freaky thing about A on Day One. “Whoa, wait, _that’s_ River?”

Mack shoots her a glare. “So?”

The girl is leaning over someone’s shoulder to read along, but instead of crouching down, she bends at the waist with her back straight.

“She’s just...creepy,” Spencer says, staring. _Too bad there isn’t a class on how to bathe yourself._

 _“You’re_ creepy,” Mack says and moves ahead of her to sit down.

They take the last two open seats in the circle, and River welcomes them and initiates a closing conversation about the previous assignment, _Howliday Inn_. A young woman with very short hair and a big smile jumps in first. She seems genuinely enthusiastic to discuss the various plot points and characters. It might be the closest thing Spencer gets to an academic conversation for a while, so she tries to tune in, despite being unfamiliar with both the text and her classmates. 

A minute later, however, Spencer is distracted by the graceful, fucking bizarro creature that is River Tam. She’s sitting in a weird yoga pose and speaking in careful, odd phrases when she chooses to speak at all. The other inmates act like she is reading their damn minds with her brilliant insights. The conversation quickly becomes more _Crossing Over_ than _Reading Rainbow_.

Just as they begin a survey of how the setting could be considered its own character, the hour’s over and it’s time to get their new books and leave. All things considered, it hasn’t been that bad; Spencer's even thinking about joining. River’s “A” comment was probably a fluke, or Spencer was just making something out of nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But on their way out, River silently hands her a copy of _The Scarlet Letter_. Spencer nearly throws it back in her face.

****************

Monday morning, they’re sitting at breakfast with a mix of girls and women from other cells. Spencer’s proud she has learned who most of them are in just a few days. She even figured out there are two women with the exact same name. It seemed quite the coincidence, but then, neither “Sarah” nor “Connor” is uncommon by any stretch. Spencer wonders if they’re good friends.

Speaking of friends, Mack certainly seems to have plenty at the moment. Nobody’s ever seen her in such a good mood, so it’s drawn a crowd, like she might do anything in between bites of her crusty waffles. Spencer’s not expecting much; her cellmate is only barely remembering to chew and swallow at this point.

Mack stands on the table, hardly able to contain herself, and lifts her milk carton to signal a toast. “I want to say thank you to Jenny fucking Schechter,” -- crumbs spray across the table -- “for getting your stuck-up, know-it-all,” -- a fleck sticks to Spencer’s forehead --  “tightwad, pasty ass thrown OUTTA HERE!” The dozen or so women around her all raise their cartons as well and clink the paper boxes together. Mack throws her empty carton against the far wall for dramatic effect and holds her arms above her head with one foot on Aphasia’s tray. “NO MORE WAITLIST FOR ME, BITCHES!”

The room erupts in applause, and Spencer awkwardly slow claps but doesn’t really understand why. As the noise settles back to its usual dull roar, Mack gets down and takes another bite of her burnt sausage link.

“I mean,” she says, chomping hungrily, “how fucking stupid, right? You got a spot in Lucy’s class, and you fuck it up and get yourself killed?” She laughs and mutters, “Dumbass.”

All heads at the table nod and hum in agreement.

If there’s something Spencer hates, it’s not knowing what literally every other person around her seems to know. She doesn’t want to draw attention or look stupid, but she just can’t take it anymore. “Okay, what’s the deal with this Lucy?”

“What?” Lucy Diamond asks from the end of the table, hearing her name.

Graham, the sly-looking girl who’s been blatantly checking Spencer out all morning, waves a hand dismissively and calls down, “Other one!”

Lucy Diamond gives a look that says, _Of course,_ and goes back to her breakfast.

“There’s more than one of her, too?” Spencer asks. She’s getting quite tired of multiple versions of people in this fucking place.

“Lucy?” Aphasia asks, then looks at Mack and mumbles, “You wish,” through a full mouth of food.

At that comment, Mack subtly glances across the room before quietly continuing to stuff her now very smug face.

Spencer’s eyes try to follow, but it’s just the same old mass of black uniforms and shitty haircuts. This mystical unicorn of a girl _must_ be in here somewhere, but Spencer doesn’t see anyone who looks particularly special. No rays of sunlight magically shining down on anyone, no rainbows shooting out of anyone’s ass. Just a room full of angry, smelly women shouting their usual threats and slurs. “Where is she?”

Mack doesn’t seem to be listening anymore, lost in her own lustful thoughts, so Graham says, “Eight o’clock, far table.”

Spencer turns to her left and tries to see past the dozens of moving heads in the way. The view is crap, which probably explains why she hasn’t really noticed this section of tables before. But then she sees a splash of color – _Is that a pink uniform?_  Sure enough, through the rows of faces, Spencer can see a girl in a pink jumpsuit with long, wavy blonde hair sitting across from two fiercely attractive brunettes. They’re offset from the rest of the group by a few seat spaces. The blonde’s back is to Spencer, but she knows in her gut that’s Lucy.

Mack does have a thing for blondes.

Spencer stands briefly, wanting to see Lucy’s face, but Mack punches her in the thigh and hisses, “Sit down, shitbrain!”

A second later, Graham and Aphasia each grab Spencer by the shoulders and pull her back onto the bench before she can get a good look.

“Hey, let go of me!” She jerks out of their grip and settles into her seat with a huff and some pointed glares. Everyone is so damn violent here.

“You trying to get us killed?” Mack asks, pissed as nails.

“Yes,” Spencer says dryly, “behold my clever plan to murder you by _standing._ ”

Mack just scoffs and takes another bite of her sausage. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Spencer crosses her arms. “You worship this girl, yet you’re terrified of her. That sounds very healthy.” It was hypocritical and she knew it, considering what she and her friends went through with Alison, but _they_ didn’t need to know that. “Why is she wearing _pink?”_

“Because she’s special, that’s why,” Mack huffs. Clearly frustrated, she looks around the group for assistance and says, “How do I begin to explain Lucy Fabray?”

Quinn glowers and puts out her cigarette in Aphasia’s syrup. “Don’t ask me.”

“She flawless,” says Aphasia, dunking her stepped-on waffle without a care.

The oldest inmate at the table, a regal looking woman named Regina Mills, leans in. “I hear her hair’s insured for ten thousand dollars.”

Lorna Morello smiles and says, “I hear she did mattress commercials in Ohio.” Spencer can’t tell what’s more laughable, the statement or her accent.

A few seats down, River repeatedly stabs her food with a plastic spork and speaks without breaking eye contact. “Her favorite movie is Ferngully: The Last Rainforest.”

“One time she met Portia di Rossi on a plane,” says Mack, green with envy.

“And she told Lucy she was pretty,” adds Dark Willow. “Whore.”

Sameen Shaw walks by with her tray, and, overhearing, stops to look at Spencer long enough to say, completely deadpanned, “One time she punched me in the face.” When Spencer’s eyes widen, Shaw gives a slight shrug and adds, “It was awesome.”

Okay, now Spencer is even more confused than before. “Yeah.” This Lucy girl sounds like a real piece of work. “So...what’s with the Play-Doh?”

Mack stops chewing, mouth open, and just stares for a moment. A second later, she’s on her feet, shouting angrily. “You don’t fucking know her! You don’t know her life!” She flips her breakfast tray at Spencer, then picks up Aphasia’s tray and throws it across the room.

“My waffles!” Aphasia screams and runs after them.

The clash and clang of utensils echo in the noisy Mess Hall, but nobody really turns to see what’s going on. It’s no more a disturbance than when Starbuck decked Kat at dinner last night or when two brunettes started going at it on the table during lunch on Wednesday. _(Come to think of it, was that the same two brunettes sitting with Lucy?)_

But, unlike then, Spencer now has syrup dripping down her jumpsuit and food all over her. She can already hear a few whispers of “Maple Tits” rippling through the room, and she just wants to get up and run away. No one here gives a shit about her. She’s completely on her own.

Aphasia sits back down with her restocked tray, then reaches over and starts gently picking pieces of egg out of Spencer’s hair one at a time.

“Thanks,” Spencer says quietly, closing her eyes. Maybe she’s found a prison friend after all.

But then Aphasia starts _eating_ the eggs, and Spencer gives up.

Aphasia mutters between bites, “The waffles are better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have never seen Mean Girls, shame on you.


	9. Lucy's Play-Doh Funhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer spends her morning shower de-breakfasting herself. Aphasia, it turns out, was thorough in her grooming technique, so Spencer’s thankfully egg-free. But, the ten allotted minutes were only enough to scrub her sticky uniform and nothing else. Now, she’s just wet, not actually clean.

As Boomer’s collecting them to return to their cell, Sue comes charging around the corner in large strides.

“Banger!” she yells, not slowing down as she nears them.

“It’s ‘Boomer,’ sir,” the guard replies, like she’s said it a hundred times.

“Until you stop calling me ‘sir,’ you can be Bibbity Bobbity Boo, for all I care,” says Sue. “What’s the status on 5?”

“Still code black, but we’re on it, sir -- Sue. Ma’am. Sylvester. Sir.”

Sue does not look even remotely pleased. She leans down until she’s right in Boomer’s face, awkwardly so, and speaks with an even calmness that gives Spencer a chill. “Move this chum out of my hallway and get your ass down to the galley until you’ve fixed our little problem.” She straightens, glancing quickly down the line of prisoners until she reaches Spencer. Sue casts her a disgusted look, then turns to walk away. “I’ve got the President on the phone, six conjugal visits in the next four days, and enough unfiled paperwork in my office to bury a small child alive.”

Spencer perks up. Not at the sex part _(because, ew)_ , but at the potential for office work. She’s overdue for a good, old-fashioned snooping around.

When they return to the cell, Spencer hangs by the door to talk to Boomer. After five minutes of negotiating through the guard’s almost impressive levels of ambivalence and apathy, Spencer manages to convince her to run an idea by Sue -- an hour of helping in the office in exchange for a few extra minutes in the shower. It feels like a win-win, not to mention the much-needed change of scenery. An hour later, Boomer comes back with a “whatever” and leads Spencer to a blissful five-minute rinse, saying that Sue will call her in soon. Getting a shower now is a gesture of good faith from the warden, who could smell the breakfast on her from ten feet away.

Three o’clock rolls around, and squeaky-clean Spencer files out for rec time as she’s done for the last four days. She’s finally reaching a point of routine, which is comforting, even though it’s a _prison_ routine. She likes structure and schedules and all that; it helps her stay in control. But today feels different. Today, terror is bubbling violently in her stomach (though, that may be the “orange juice” from earlier), and Spencer has no goddamn clue _what_ is waiting for her up ahead. Somehow, today’s agenda seems even scarier than Knives or Fires or anything else on that list.

Even Bees.

She takes small steps (as if stalling will do her any good), and tries to keep her face as blank as possible. Nobody else seems the least bit worried about their rec time. Regina has a stack of library books in her arms at least a foot high. Kat’s bragging loudly about her latest bench press load, which nobody’s buying, and Corky’s soliciting opponents for the billiard room -- though, for playing pool or “playing” on the pool table, Spencer doesn’t know. For that matter, she has yet to see either a gym or a pool table in this place.

As the prisoners pass through the main hall, a contingent starts to break off to the left. Mack leads the way yet again as Spencer follows timidly (in no small part because Mack grabbed her by the collar moments prior and growled, “If you fuck this up for me, I will _kill_ you.”) A pair of beautiful inmates just behind them – Flaca and Maritza -- are chatting incessantly about beauty tips and DIY prison makeup. They’re practically finishing each other’s sentences in rapid fire, bopping from one topic to the next. Spencer wonder if this is the type of vapid conversation that regularly takes place in a Play-Doh Funhouse. She wouldn’t be surprised.

For all Mack’s bluster about this course, it doesn’t seem to be very popular. Spencer counts only a dozen students, including a few familiar faces like Dark Willow and one of the Sarah Connors, making it the smallest class she’s attended this week. They wait outside until a faint signal sounds -- a kind of ringing from inside, like a brass bell -- and they enter single-file with Spencer close behind Mack at the end of the line.

Yeah. She is absolutely fucking terrified.

Mack isn’t, and she enters with a spring in her step, breathing, “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod,” over and over.

Spencer finally edges into the Mess Hall, takes one quick glance around, and echoes, “Oh...my _god_.”

The room has been completely redecorated since lunch. It would be unrecognizable if not for the perpetual smell of dirty dishwater hanging over everything. Hot pink drop cloths cover the four center tables with neon green on the benches. Crêpe paper streamers of every color twist overhead. Baskets of craft supplies line the walkway, filled with glitter and paint and beads and brushes and paste. On an easel in the middle of the room rests a purple chart with twelve names, each boasting several gold star stickers in a row under a checklist. (Spencer notices Mack’s name has been added to the bottom on a blank line and Jenny’s row is crossed out.) A string spans the length of the room like a clothesline, displaying maybe fifteen of what must be fingerpaintings on construction paper. But god only knows what they’re paintings _of_. One of them has eyes? Maybe?

_No one with an IQ over sixty made those. And is that “Pop Goes the Weasel” playing in the background? ...On a cassette player?!_

Spencer seems to have left prison behind and entered the world of kindergarten.

Kindergarten _in Hell._

It’s even worse than she thought.

Two rows of six place settings rest on the tables -- replete with small tubs of neon Play-Doh -- and Mack pushes through the other inmates to get a seat on the end of the front row.

Spencer lingers in the back and watches out of morbid curiosity. A blonde woman she assumes is Lucy stands with her back turned as she makes final adjustments to the spread of supplies on the front table. She’s dressed not in the standard black uniform but a bright pink one. Definitely the same girl Spencer saw in the cafeteria. She sighs and resigns herself to an hour of arts and crafts, of all things, and walks up to nudge Mack over and sit next to her. Spencer figures since she doesn’t have a place setting to herself and she’s not technically a member of the class, she might as well sit with someone she knows. Even someone as embarrassing as Mack; she’s grinning like an idiot and literally bouncing in her seat, as is the happy Maybelline couple on the far end of their bench. Spencer notices the rest of the class behaving similarly, and casually looks around to see if there’s an espresso machine somewhere she missed.

One very long minute later, the instructor turns around with a flourish and smiles at her rapt audience, giving Spencer her first look at the mystery that is Lucy Fabray. Her breath catches in her chest. Smoldering hazel eyes, perfectly sculpted eyebrows, soft lips she recognizes, though they’re usually wrapped around a cigarette filter...

Spencer does a double-take, then leans over to Mack. “That’s Quinn!”

Mack looks at Spencer like she’s denser than concrete. “No...that’s Lucy.”

Spencer blinks hard and squints, but she’s not imagining things. She points this time and whispers, “It’s _Quinn!_ They’re _identical_.” Well, aside from the longer, less-pink hair and the apparent personality transplant.

Mack slaps the pointing hand down before Lucy can see it. “What are you talking about?” she whispers angrily. “No, they’re not!”

“Are you fucking blind?” Spencer says it more loudly than she means to, but she’s not making this up.

Mack hisses, “Don’t say ‘fucking!’ Lucy doesn’t like cussing in here. So I’ve heard.”

Spencer stares at Mack in disbelief. Did she wander into some bizarro alternate universe? Or is this what going crazy feels like?

“Good afternoon, friends!” Lucy says, sweet as punch, before Spencer can say anything else. “Welcome to Lucy’s Play-Doh Funhouse! It’s a beautiful day to make art, don’t you think?”

“No,” Spencer says lowly. “It’s not even _daytime_. We’re in SPACE.”

Mack jams an elbow into her ribs and snaps, “Pay attention, this is important.”

Lucy puts her hands over her heart. “Today we will use the magic of Play-Doh to recreate a childhood pet. We want to celebrate and remember the love and warmth they brought into our lives.”

Spencer’s eyes nearly roll out of her head.

_Lucy Fabray is the Mr. Rogers of space prison._

“For many of us,” Lucy continues, “a pet is the most true and loyal friend a girl can have.”

_Apparently, she’s never owned a vibrator._

But hey, at least Spencer is exempt from today’s assignment. After all, she killed her own pet with a death glare when she was five. She doesn’t imagine a dead guppy would meet any of Lucy’s expectations.

A voice rises from the table right behind them. Spencer recognizes it as Dark Willow’s and wonders what the hell this Creature of the Night is doing here. Hunting, perhaps? She’s probably about to flay Lucy’s skin off with a casual flick of her hand. (Spencer remembers _that_ trick and the defenseless fried chicken on Friday.)

“What if I didn’t have a childhood pet?” Dark Willow asks timidly. She then whispers over her table to Spencer, “I wasn’t allowed to have fish for five years.”

Lucy just smiles. “That’s okay, you can borrow one of mine! I have plenty to share.” She gestures grandly to one of the fingerpaintings, the brown, spiky ball with two glowing red eyes. “Miss Lady Meowsers Scratchington the Third is wonderful inspiration for any artist!”

Spencer thinks it looks like a Tribble on crack, or something out of _Pet Sematary_ , only scarier.

One of the Mary Kay wannabes, Flaca, raises a hand, and Lucy calls on her. “Question?”

“Does it have to be, like… _exactly_ like how he was?” Flaca asks with a very serious tone. “Because I had this little chihuahua named Pepper, and he was always tryin’ to get up on the ass of the little poodle next door, because she liked to come into the yard flaunting it right in front of him even though he was chained to his leash, right?”

Next to her, Maritza asks, “Why she gotta be like that?”

Flaca continues, “And one day she got him chasing her in circles, just running around and around, and his chain got wrapped around his leg and it pulled so tight that it almost ripped it right off.”

Maritza gasps with a hand over her mouth.

“It got messed up _real_ bad. Like, there wasn’t enough blood going into it anymore or something and it just hanged there,” Flaca says. “And then he couldn’t walk right or nothing anymore? It was kinda dragging along behind him. But we couldn’t take him to the vet because we were two weeks late on rent that month and the landlord’s sister was a assistant vet tech at the animal hospital and woulda been like, ‘Hey bitch, why you got money for a stupid dog leg but not for your fuckin’ house?’ “

Maritza nods sympathetically, then turns to look at Lucy. “She would totally say that.”

“So, my cousin Marco gave Pepper some tequila – not enough to get him drunk, but just to take the edge off, you know? And then he tied a balloon around right here – “ She holds her hands against the top of her thigh at the hip joint. “-- and cut off Pepper’s whole leg using this really good knife we got on the Home Shopping Network --”

Martiza cuts in, “I _love_ the Home Shopping Network. I get all my best turquoise earrings there.”

Flaca turns to Maritza, confused. “You don’t wear turquoise earrings.”

“It’s not my color,” she replies. “I just like to have them.”

Flaca nods, like that makes all the sense in the world. “We could still use the knife after, too. It was kind of messy but Pepper lived through it.”

Putting her hand on Flaca’s arm, Maritza nods and says, “That’s _so good._ I never knew Marco could be so kind to animals.”

“Yeah,” Flaca agrees, “Me neither.” They close their eyes and share a moment together. “I think we were all better after that, you know?”

Spencer’s watching this tale play out, truly horrified by the story. She glances over at Lucy and sees she’s listening intently and nodding along, equally heartbroken on poor Pepper’s behalf.

“We grow stronger from the love they show us,” Lucy says, “but we also grow from the love we show them.”

“That’s it _exactly_ ,” Flaca says. “So, even though Pepper only had three legs when he died, _technically_ in his heart he had four. So, that’s how I’m gonna make him today.”

Maritza puts her hand over her heart, overcome with emotion. “His true self.”

Lucy smiles at them both and says, “I think he would like that very much. Thank you for sharing your beautiful story.” Then, looking up over the whole class, she announces, “You may now begin creating your masterpieces!” Right away there’s a flurry of hands grabbing Play-Doh jars and tops popping open, as everyone dives in. Well, everyone except Spencer.

Not one minute later, Lucy walks over to where she and Mack are sitting. Mack about pisses herself.

Lucy locks eyes with Spencer and gives a warm, friendly smile. “Hi there! You must be Spencer. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Likewise,” Spencer says, unable to contain her passive-aggressive smarminess. She can’t imagine what Lucy could’ve heard about her other than her syrup-flavored breasts, but even that’s not as embarrassing as this class. “Quite the set-up you’ve got here.”

“It’s a very special place,” Lucy agrees. “Well, I hope your first few days here have been going well. Very nice to meet you.”

“You, too,” Spencer says with a vapid smile that fades the moment Lucy turns away. Being in this environment can’t be good for her health.

For the next twenty minutes, Spencer watches twelve convicted felons make a variety of animal-like creations using colors not found anywhere in nature. At one point, Mack asks her if she wants to try one herself, and Spencer declines with a firm, _“No,”_ and goes back to judging every single thing around her like it’s her job.

Forty minutes in, she’s pretty sure she’s going to die of boredom. And it’s unnerving, watching a girl she’s followed to DIY Tattoos basically devolve into a five-year-old. Spencer wonders why all these supposed hardened criminals are taking such delight in neon modeling clay. Is “funhouse” just code for “nuthouse”? How long have they all been trapped up here? Isn’t there a library full of porn just down the hall? Why the fuck is there Play-Doh in space prison, anyway?

After doing several laps around the cafeteria, Lucy stops in front of their table again. “Great work, Mack!” she says and claps her hands. “Your artistry in creating such a fluffy puppy-dog is outstanding! Just look at those little ears! They’re perfect! I can tell you’re a truly gifted new addition to our wonderful little class.”

Mack beams so brightly she could power the sun, then elbows Spencer in the side just as hard. _“Did you hear that?!”_

Peering over them to the table behind, Lucy says, “And what a perfect depiction of Lady Meowsers! Whiskers and everything! I couldn’t have done it any better, myself.”

Even the veins on Dark Willow’s forehead are smiling.

Lucy then shifts gears, turning to Spencer with a tiny frown. “Is there a reason you haven’t gotten started? Do you need some help?” A pause. “Is Mack _sharing_?” she asks pointedly.

Spencer glares, wondering if her fingernail is sharp enough to slit throats. “I’m _fine_.”

She also wonders how, in the course of a week, she went from a Georgetown acceptance to failing kindergarten.

Mack’s not coming to her rescue. “I asked!” she says defensively, then softens with a smile. “Sharing is caring.”

Lucy smiles back. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Spencer’s going to puke.

The moment Lucy turns her back, Mack grabs Spencer’s arm and bounces in her seat again.

But before Spencer can shake her off, a graceful arpeggio sings out from the rainbow-colored chime on the front table, signaling the end of class.

“All right, ladies, it’s time to clean up!” Lucy calls, sweetly. “Be sure to put the lids tight on your cans! We’d hate for everything to dry out before our next class.”

Spencer hears a murmur as several heads dutifully nod. Play-Doh is serious business.

“ _If_ we have class next week,” Lucy announces, “we’ll make chicks and bunnies for Easter!” Most of the room gasps in excitement. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed!”

Spencer leans over to Mack. “Why wouldn’t there be class next week?”

“What’s it to you?” Mack spits, pushing the cap tight on her tub and slamming it hard on the table. Without warning, she gets up and heads for the door, clearly trying to distance herself from the class dunce.

Spencer thanks Lucy with the fakest of smiles and chases after Mack. She can’t exit the room fast enough, really. Boomer’s dull, apathetic faces is a sight for sore eyes, and Spencer practically pulls Boomer along at her brisk pace to get back to 10.

Who knew she’d be so excited to get into a jail cell?

Quinn’s in her bunk as usual and looks up from her book upon their return. “How was preschool?”

“Ignore her, Spencer,” Mack says, feet perched on the crossbeam of her bunk. “She’s just jealous.”

“Jealous of _what?”_ Spencer asks. “The Crayola Cult? How can you not see how weird that all was?” But she has an even bigger bone to pick with Quinn, who so conveniently left out very fucking important details at breakfast that morning. Nobody keeps Spencer Hastings in the dark. “And _you_ ,” she angles up to Quinn, “is Lucy your evil twin or something? Because _that_ was the creepiest part of the whole thing!”

Quinn sighs and doesn’t meet Spencer’s eyes, rolling over to the face the wall, muttering, “I hate that bitch.”

“You take that back!” Mack shouts, and Spencer’s surprised to see that Mack’s talking to her. Standing up, Mack gets in Spencer’s face for the eleventh time this week with that same sick, smug look. “You think you’re so damn smart, but you’re the dumbest bitch in this place. You had a chance to work with Lucy Fabray your _first week here_ , and you just sat there like a fucking _loser_.”

Spencer finally snaps. “WELL, EXCUSE ME IF I’M NOT INTERESTED IN MARY POPPINS’ PLAY-DOH SHITHOUSE.”

Mack, for once, doesn’t seem to know what to say. She throws herself onto her bunk with a huff, mumbling obscenities under her breath and mimicking Spencer in a nasty voice.

Spencer lies down, too, and hears Quinn quietly laughing up in her bunk.

 _Thank god there’s someone else who hasn’t been sipping the Kool-Aid_ , she thinks _._ _Even if her twin is the damn ringleader._

Without warning, Aphasia’s face pops into view from overhead and about scares the shit out of her. “Y’all watched Mary Poppins?”


	10. Shark Week

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Aphasia wasn’t lying -- Quinn spanks Mack on Wednesdays.

Spencer’s curled up in her bunk with _The Scarlet Letter_. She’ll be damned if she doesn’t finish it by next Sunday all the same. She’s still Spencer Hastings, even in prison. Every other word reminds her of Toby’s betrayal, but at least it’s a more interesting read than Quinn’s next recommendation, _Sweet Honey Valley_. Even better, it’s a welcome distraction from the noise across the cell.

_Thank you, River Tam, you deranged lunatic._

Three chapters later, a loud _crack_ interrupts the monotonous drone of smacks and screams. Spencer glances cautiously over her shoulder and sees Quinn standing by her bunk. “Please tell me you’re done,” she mutters.

Quinn just chuckles as Aphasia hands her something resembling a cricket bat. “Riding crop broke.”

“Ah,” Spencer nods. “And she just lets you do...that...with her stuff?”

“I don’t mind!” Aphasia calls from above.

Quinn gives them both a grin and a wink before resuming her position over Mack. “Wait your turn.”

_SMACK!_

Spencer sucks in a breath, her eyes widening slightly as she feels a twinge of...something. Not annoyance, like she’d expect, but rather a jolt to her ladyparts which she is just _not_ equipped to deal with right now. She rolls back to face the wall with a groan, hoping it sounds adequately like disgust. Which it is. Really.

Two paragraphs back into the world of Hester Prynne, Spencer notices something moving near her feet. She sets the book aside and sits up for a closer look, hoping it’s her eight-legged friend. Sure enough, Charlotte’s scurrying away on her web, faster than ever, and Spencer can kind of make out the beginning of a “T” before the intercom crackles to life overhead.

**Plink- _plink_.**

“What was that?” Spencer says. The riding crop is loud, but she’s pretty sure those tinny notes aren’t the start of any Madonna song. It sounds like the Fisher Price version of the Jaws theme.

**Plink _-plink._**

Quinn curses and the paddle drops to the floor with a _clunk_.  “You’ve _got_ to be kidding me...”

**Plink _-plink._**

“I’m a LITTLE BUSY here!” Mack yells at the intercom, still on all fours, ass in the air.

**Plink- _plink_ , plink- _plink._**

“What’s going on?”

But Spencer’s cellmates are too busy huffing and putting their clothes back on. She watches a frustrated Quinn toss the various floggers back to Aphasia, who stores them beneath her mattress. As the _plinks_ come faster and faster, Spencer turns to see Charlotte hovering over the largest web yet, which reads:

 ** _THERE WILL BE BLOOD_**.

Okay, now she’s officially freaked out.

**Plink- _plink_ , plink- _plink._**

“Hey! Guys?” Spencer yells over the incessant plinking. “Is there an emergency or something? Should I be worried here?”

But her cellmates aren’t even paying attention, just reading and picking at scabs like nothing’s wrong.

**Plink _plink,_ plink _plink_ , plink _plink_ plink _plink_ plink _plink_ plink _plink_ pl--CLANK!**

_“Ladies and gays,”_ comes Sue’s voice from the speaker.  _“Code Red. I repeat, Code Red.”_

With a crackle, the intercom shuts off again.

“Uh. That can't be good.” Spencer’s even more concerned than before.

Aphasia leans over the edge of her bed. “Somebody bleeding.”

Sue’s voice continues. _“Lockdown procedures are in effect for your own safety.”_

“SAFETY, MY ASS,” Mack screams at the intercom.

But Spencer’s still clinging to what Aphasia said. “Like, stabbed?!”

“Naw,” she handwaves, then widens her eyes suggestively. “You know.” And she points down toward her stomach.

Just then, Buffy hurls a rectangular carton between the bars that lands in the middle of the cell with a dull thud. It’s a Tampax jumbo pack.

“Shark Week,” Quinn mutters, not looking up from chapter six of _Rum Spring Break_.

The doctor warned Spencer about this, she remembers, but it still doesn’t seem like such a big deal. Is there something dangerous about having your period in space? It’s not like there are any actual sharks nearby. She pauses for a moment to consider that, then wonders if this bunk’s previous tenant went crazy and _that’s_ why she was airlocked.

_Seems legit._

“So, what now?” Spencer asks.

Mack kicks the box hard against the back wall of the cell, and it bursts open on impact, setting off a fireworks show of flying peach tampons. “Lockdown.”

Glancing around the cell, Spencer asks, “How can we get any more locked down?”

“Less meals, less showers, NO CLASSES,” Mack shouts toward the empty hallway.

Spencer winces and almost corrects Mack’s grammar with “fewer,” but catches herself at the last second. She’s quickly learning just how many things Aphasia has under her mattress that could kill her, and Mack seems to be in a particularly foul mood over the cancellation of Play-Doh Dumbhouse.

“No breaks, no laundry service,” Quinn adds. “They’re scared to get us all in the same room,” Quinn says. “Some of the ladies tend to get a little...”

“Violent?” Spencer offers.

“Homicidal.”

_Oh, great._

“Aphasia,” Mack says from the toilet, jumpsuit to her ankles. “Gimme a green one. I hate this orange light-day bullshit. Like, fuck you, Buffy. I’m hardcore.”

With a sigh, Aphasia pulls a small green package from her stash, tossing it to Mack. She then holds a second one over the edge for Spencer.

“I’m good, thanks.”

With a shrug, she tosses it to Quinn instead, who catches it one-handed without even looking and stashes it in her pillowcase.

Mack tends to her lady business right there in the open, and Spencer wonders how this has become her life. The state-of-the-art bathroom back home feels like a good dream she once had -- locking the door, shutting out the world, and washing her troubles away with a long, hot shower. She’d been taking her privacy for granted before now, where the concept no longer exists.

She zones out in Mack’s direction and only snaps back to reality when she hears the sassy, “You wanna help or something?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rum Spring Break" is a play on an actual novel called "Rum Spring" by author Yolanda Wallace. It's an Amish lesbian romance, and it's on Amazon. You're welcome.


	11. Gravity Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Sometimes, when she sleeps, Spencer feels like she’s floating. Like she’s fallen into a black hole, weightless and suspended in space. This seems to be one of those nights. She blames the insanity that is Shark Week, even though it’s only been a day and she isn’t even bleeding.

But then her head smacks against the metal underside of Aphasia’s bunk and Spencer jolts awake, only to find that she is _actually floating_.

“Whoa! Holy shit!”

Reaching out for the bed, Spencer realizes her pillow and mattress are floating as well. She grabs fistfuls of the white sheet and hangs in the air, feet rising up behind her to hit the frame again. The blood is rushing to her head, and it all feels too real to be another dream.

_WHAT is happening?_

She can’t get a good look at her cellmates from this angle, and they’re not making any noise. Kicking against the wall, she pushes herself out from under the frame and grabs on to the edge of the top bunk.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Spencer turns herself around to see a very angry, very not-floating Mack. Well, her feet are a few inches off the bed, but most of her is still flat on the mattress. Her arms are wrapped around her pillow, so it’s not going far. The mattress itself is rising a bit on the ends but seems pinned down in the middle. Maybe by Mack’s bruised, lumpy ass. But Quinn and Aphasia seem to be in the same situation.

“What the hell is going on?!” Spencer cries, clinging to the frame for dear life.

Quinn grumbles and starts to roll over in her bunk, and Spencer now sees a belt strapped firmly across her stomach and chest holds her mostly in place. “Gravity’s out,” she mumbles, covering her eyes with an arm that just floats in mid-air.

“Obviously! Why didn’t I get strapped down?” She looks like a damn flying squirrel.

Mack groans into her pillow. “Go to SLEEP.”

“HOW. How am I supposed to do that?!”

But Mack just resumes snoring.

Making her way to the far end, Spencer manages to inch down the vertical rail and along the edge of her bed. There has to be a strap here somewhere that she’d missed all this time. Have the other girls been locking themselves in every night and she didn’t notice?

It’s just a thin mattress with a single fitted sheet on a flimsy frame, so there isn’t much to investigate. Sure enough, no strap.

_Of course._

_Maybe Aphasia stole it. Maybe Mack took it so Quinn could use it for spanky times. And then maybe Jenny Schecter floated right off the bed, through the bars, and out the airlock without even waking up._

Spencer releases her grip for a moment to drift back up until she’s eye-level with Aphasia. “Where’s my strap.”

Blinking sleepily, Aphasia stretches into a yawn. “What kinda strap-on you need?”

“A STRAP. This belt thing,” she says, grabbing Aphasia’s and pulling hard to jostle the girl awake. “Why don’t I have one?”

“It’s from my ride,” she says sleepily, like it’s obvious.

Spencer now sees the buckle on the side and the second strap meeting it at a forty-five-degree angle. It’s a seat belt. How Aphasia managed to smuggle them into prison, she doesn’t want to know.

“I only got three,” Aphasia adds.

“What kind of car only has three seats?”

“MINE,” she says definitively.

The options don’t look good. There’s no way Spencer can hold the bed _and_ sleep. Smacking her head repeatedly on the ceiling wouldn’t be much of a picnic, either. She loosely considers going between her bed and the floor, but god only knows what kind of nastiness is under there. ( _No offense, Charlotte_.)

Aphasia smacks her across the arm. “I know!” She rummages around under her bed, only slightly hindered by her limited mobility.

Seconds later, Spencer feels pressure on her wrist and hears a ratcheting sound followed by a _clink!_

_Oh no._

She’s handcuffed to Aphasia’s bed.

“Really?” Spencer asks, glaring daggers and jangling the cuff against the rail. “This is your solution to the fact that I can’t sleep floating?”

“You’re welcome,” Aphasia says dryly.

Mack laughs against her pillow.

There’s a rustling as Quinn adjusts her position, sliding the nylon with a low _zip_ sound. “C’mon.” Spencer turns and sees Quinn’s raised arm holding up a muchly loosened seat belt. “There’s room.”

_Sold._

...provided Aphasia can release her first.

“Please tell me you have the key.”

The instant the cuffs come off, Spencer launches herself through the air toward Quinn. She has to carve a bit of a path through floating tampons, of all things; one nearly goes right into her mouth. And her forward momentum sends her right over Quinn and head-first into the wall. _(“Shit!”)_ Luckily, Quinn reaches up to catch her as she braces against the cold metal with her hands. They hold on to each other’s arms, Spencer still hanging in the air, laughing awkwardly.

She looks down at the gap between the loosened belt and the bed, running a few quick calculus equations. Yeah, no. She arches her eyebrow. “I can’t fit in there.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Fine,” she says. “Hold on to me.” Working together, they clumsily find where Spencer’s hands can go that won’t be in Quinn’s way, eventually settling for her hips. “Don’t tickle me,” she says with a pointed finger before clutching the rail with one hand and releasing the buckle with the other. “Now!”

In one swift move, Spencer pulls herself against the warm body below as Quinn hurriedly throws the strap over them both and says, “Lock it.”

Spencer shifts onto her side and finds the loose end, buckling them in tight with a click. She exhales deeply and lets her body relax at the sensation of being grounded and still. It’s strange seeing her bunk empty -- right there, just a few feet away -- for what appears to be no reason at all. (Well, flying tampons, notwithstanding.)

And with that, Spencer immediately tenses again. She’s strapped into a bed with someone else, this girl she barely knows. How is she supposed to sleep?

Right on cue, Quinn presses up against her back, rather snugly. An arm drapes over her side, curling lightly around her stomach. She’s used to Toby’s stupidly heavy arms (even more so when dead), but Quinn’s weight feels comfortable, like an extension of her own body. For the first time in weeks -- hell, maybe years -- Spencer feels safe.

There’s a light squeeze from Quinn’s fingers on her side, maybe deliberate, maybe just a spasm. Spencer softly sets her hand on Quinn’s, holding it in place as she half-turns to say, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Quinn deeply hums, “Mmhmm,” between slow, steady breaths.

Suddenly, Mack’s foot kicks the metal frame right under Spencer’s ass three times. _“SHUT UPPP,”_ she groans.

Quinn smiles against the back of Spencer’s neck. “You’re welcome.”


	12. Office Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer’s not entirely sure what she dreamed about that night, beyond a sensation of comfort and warmth, but when she wakes up the following morning, her first thought is, _Why am I strapped down?_

She feels breath against her neck and shifts as much, or as little, as she can to glance over her shoulder and sees Quinn almost _nuzzling_ her.

_Oh, right._

Her first instinct is to elbow Quinn square in the stomach and remove herself from the situation; the dumb part of her considers reaching down to curl her fingers gently around the hand Quinn has resting against her stomach. But before she can come to a decision, Quinn shifts and Spencer feels the belt loosen and fall to either side of the bed.

“G’morning,” Quinn mumbles as she rolls away and stretches.

Spencer can feel her heart pitter-patter as Quinn nudges her with an outstretched arm, but she instinctively pretends to still be asleep. It feels like the right thing to do, even if it is the gay thing to do. She’s not in any hurry to get out of this bed.

Mack growls, “Go fuck yourself,” from under them, just before Spencer can drift back off to a pleasant dream.

Spencer feels Quinn laugh against her neck, and it tickles, making her shift and shimmy to loosen Quinn’s grasp on her waist. But then it tickes _there_ , and Spencer has to flip over to make it stop. She senses warmth close to her face, mere inches away. Sure enough, her eyes flicker open and gaze directly into Quinn’s.  “H-hi,” she says, low and raspy.

_Sure, well done, Spencer._

Quinn just smirks. “Hello to you, too,” she says.  “Sleep well?”

Spencer hums happily and smiles, stretching her arms downward along her body. “What was that all about, anyway? The gravity, I mean.” Not the cuddling part, which is even more confusing for her brain.

“Sue has Raven shut it off the first night of Shark Week,” Quinn replies. “She says it helps with cramps.”

It’s an absurd solution, Spencer thinks. Why not just give pain meds to the girls who need it, rather than keep the entire cell block from being able to sleep? Well, aside from the privileged few who happen to have a work-around. “And you didn't think it was worth giving me a heads-up?”

Suddenly, Aphasia leaps from her bed and starts a dance routine in the middle of the room. After about twenty beats of hip-hop moves, she finishes with a loud exclamation and both arms in the air. “Waffles!”

Spencer flips back over and stares, dumbfounded.

“It’s true love,” Quinn whispers in her ear. 

 _That_ sends a shiver down Spencer’s spine. Not that she knows why.

“Lucky for her,” Quinn continues, “that’s all we get for breakfast during Shark Week, anyway.”

When Buffy comes around to deliver their cold, dry breakfast, Spencer’s certain that she’ll get shoved aside in favor of food, but Quinn doesn’t seem particularly eager to end their cuddlefest, either. The warmth of their closeness is more comfortable – and less awkward -- than she anticipated. In fact, Spencer’s perfectly content to hunker down in Quinn’s bunk for the whole day. But then Buffy’s voice pierces through her otherwise lovely morning.

“Hastings! Rise and shine.”

The cell door unlocks and Buffy slides it aside with barely more than a nudge of her finger. She watches Spencer impatiently, as if silently counting down in her head before she comes in there and drags Spencer off the bed.

Quinn pokes her in the side again. “Guess you’d better go,” she says, lips ghosting against Spencer’s neck.

Spencer groans and shoves off the bunk, landing on the cold, metal floor with a thud. “What?” she grouses at Buffy, who just shrugs.

“Warden wants to see you,” she says. “Guess she wants some shark meat for breakfast.” She sounds delighted by her own joke, but Spencer’s not laughing.

If prison has taught her anything so far, it’s that curbing her desire to correct people is good for her health, so Spencer puts on her shoes without saying a word. Is she really the only person in this place _not_ on her period? And is that going to somehow be a bad thing? Should she pretend?

Buffy cuffs her and leads her down the corridor. Spencer hears a few whistles and catcalls from behind her, back in cells that can’t even see her walking, and wonders if this place has turned into a damn zoo of crazy, hormonal psychopaths.

River literally barks at her as they pass by.

Buffy turns the wheel on the door that seals the cell block like a vault, then leads Spencer down a long, narrow hall. Only the widest part between the Infirmary and the Processing room is familiar. The hallway curves sharply in this new territory, and there’s a door ten steps down on the left with a single chair outside it. A metal placard with “SUE SYLVESTER” and “WARDEN” is displayed at eye level.

Spencer sits down and doesn’t put up a fight when Buffy chains her handcuffs to the chair. It’s not like there’s anywhere to go even if she breaks free. This whole space gimmick is quite effective.

"Wait here," Buffy says and heads back the way they came.

After several minutes, a girl Spencer hasn’t seen before emerges from the office. She’s young, maybe Spencer’s age but very short. She’s wearing glasses and a navy-blue track suit identical to the one the warden wore on Spencer’s first day.

The girl turns on her way out Sue’s door, salutes, and says, “You got it, boss!” enthusiastically. A beat later, she notices Spencer and spits, “What are you looking at, Bloody Mary?” before storming off. The abrupt shift in her tone is startling.

Spencer recoils and almost yells back at a complete stranger. But before she can get any words out, she hears the warden’s voice coming through the crack in the unclosed door, and quickly decides she doesn’t want to reveal her position.

_“Madam President --”_

Spencer blinks. _Madam?_

 _“ – We are talking about depraved criminals with homicidal tendencies, pent up in a space box like ticking, hormonal time bombs. Will they eventually claw each other’s eyes out? Yes. Fact.”_  There’s a long silence from Sue with a faint, distorted mumbling in the background, and Spencer now knows she’s listening to one side of a phone call. _“I disagree,”_   Sue replies plainly _. “Our turnover has been the lowest in this sector for ten straight years, and frankly I don’t understand why we’re even having this conversa-- ...You think she’s something special? Half our population are enemies of one state or another!”_   Sue sounds more defiant now, and Spencer strains to make out any words of the other side of the conversation to no avail.

 _“...They don’t intimidate me,”_   Sue says. _“...If the Peacekeepers cared about Aeryn Sun so much, why’d they send her away in the first place? Sounds like a steaming hot pile of Not My Problem by lazy, whiny BABIES.”_   Each word is dripping with disdain _._

Spencer listens intently, trying to make sense of it, but it’s not adding up to much. She hasn’t met anyone named Aeryn Sun, and she has no idea what Peacekeepers are.

After a moment, Sue continues. _“Well, you try telling an angry lesbian prison mob NOT to shiv the woman who spit in their fish tacos….No ma’am, that was not a euphemism. She worked in the kitchen…Most of what’s left of her is in Ziploc bags. I haven’t seen such sloppy work since the Carter administration.”_  There’s another pause, then Sue begins again, much angrier. _“Then tell them to shove their Coroner’s Transfer Request UP THEIR PEACEKEEPING ASSES.”_  Spencer flinches, startled. _“And if you can find time in your busy schedule of staring out windows, crying for no reason, please tell your Department of Justice to keep the Peace Princesses out of my freshly conditioned hair!”_

Shit is getting real in there. How is Sue allowed to talk to a President this way, Spencer wonders? Then, her chest tightens at the realization that she might end up bearing the brunt of Sue’s anger when she’s eventually called inside.

_“We are following protocol and taking appropriate measures to control the situation. Despite what you seem to believe, I do know how to run a prison.”_

Spencer wonders what those supposed “measures and protocols” are, because everything about this prison is absurd.

Sue huffs and says, _“Speaking of crazy people. You know, blame me all you like -- whatever helps you sleep at night alone and naked on your presidential sheets. I’d just like to point out that we’ve only seen this dramatic increase in violence since YOU transferred that horrifying belch of a woman to my ship…”_

 _Oh god_.

Sue didn’t mean _Spencer_ , did she?

But, no – Spencer’s family might be connected, but not anywhere _near_ that level. There’s no way this president of…wherever…knows who Spencer is.

_…Right?_

Sue’s flat out mad now. _“I told you these mandatory psych evals are pointless, and now there’s a dead body to show for it. The way I see it, that’s every bit as much on her as anyone. Maybe she drove Sun to the brink and she snapped.”_

Well, Spencer’s own conscience is clear, as she’s never interacted with this Sun woman. But she’s desperate to know who the warden’s talking about now – The doctor? A guard? Some other staff person Spencer hasn’t met yet?

And is Sue really insinuating that this person is a suspect?

_“Let me save you the time and taxpayer money: They’re all crazy! Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs!”_

Based on what Spencer’s seen so far, she can’t disagree.

There’s a long pause, and then Sue’s voice drops. _“Madam President, I find your venom and lack of faith absolutely_ intoxicating _.”_

_Wait, what?_

Sue’s sultry whispering continues. _“How I do so look forward to our next conjugal angerbang.”_  The next part is barely audible, and Spencer – regrettably – leans in to hear, _“I may serve at the pleasure of the President, but this time tomorrow, you’ll be the one serving and pleasuring me.”_

_Wait, WHAT?!_

Spencer hears the slamming sound of the phone call ending, and then the warden’s voice booms loud and clear, “BECKY!” A few steps, then the door flies open and Sue looks left and right down the hall. Both Buffy and that girl, Becky, are long gone. Spencer’s envious that they escaped the mental images of what she just overheard.

The warden pauses and squints, considering her next move, then seems to give up. “Get in here.”

“Um.” Spencer holds up her cuffed hands, fastened to the chain.

Sue sighs in frustration, then grabs a ring of what must be forty nearly identical keys off her desk, finding the right one immediately and unlocking the hardware.

The office is larger than Spencer expected, and the shelves behind Sue aren’t lined with books or pictures or even weapons, but countless large, gold trophies -- an entire wall of acclaimed accomplishments. For a moment, Spencer’s not just intimidated but jealous, until she takes a closer look. The figurines on top are unlike any she’s ever seen before -- a woman holding a large rifle, a woman holding a large knife, a woman holding a rifle _and_ a knife, a building on fire, a woman scolding a crying child, a person with a dozen arrows through them at different angles, a double female symbol, a woman wrestling an alligator, a man running away from a woman with a chainsaw, and about four with handcuffs on them. There is also a small cheerleading one on the far end.

For some reason, that one scares her the most.

Spencer looks around and sees, hanging on the wall beside the trophy case, a single framed picture...of Sue with Olivia Newton-John, signed, _“I love getting physical with you!”_

_Oh god._

“Gonna put that big brain of yours to work,” Sue says. “Banger-and-Mash says you owe me an hour of labor for some extra time in the showers.” She sits down in her large chair and leans back. “Look, I understand the perverted, primal desires to ogle the goods around here. We do have quite the delicious assortment, and I know you come from a background of severe sexual repression.”

Spencer opens her mouth to protest, but Sue continues.

“And the truth is, I could use a little extra help, administratively speaking. My assistant is a beautiful, gentle, compassionate soul with all the elegance of a stallion in the wind.” She pauses, seeming taken back by the thought of this, and Spencer wonders how in the hell Sue could be talking about the same girl that just yelled at Spencer a minute ago. “Unfortunately, her organizational skills are lacking such strength and grace.” She gestures with her head to several large stacks of messy files and papers on the floor by the smaller of her three trophy cases. Each stack has a post-it on it with the word “NO” scrawled in a different color crayon. Beside them, a small pile of ashes sits on a charred, black mark on the floor where a fourth pile presumably used to be. “You help me, you earn your Peek-a-Boo Shower Time. Five minutes for each hour of work. Can’t let you get too carried away in there.”

Spencer’s mouth falls open again, but Sue doesn’t seem to need a response from her.

“Today, you’re alphabetizing.” She pauses. “I’m assuming mastery of the ABC song was a requirement for your college applications.”


	13. Recon Reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer ends up working overtime, because there’s surely clues to be had, though she doesn’t realize it’s been two hours until Sue walks back in and says, “Impressive.” Spencer starts to smile, but then Sue continues, “I had no idea you were such the motivated pervert.”

She blinks hard and bites back the desire to argue, remembering how Hanna would say not to poke the bear. Sue can think whatever she wants as long as Spencer gets what she needs. But right now, what she needs is answers, and she’s found exactly zero in all her digging. Even if she felt brave enough to ask Sue for information, where would she start? If she only got one question, it’d have to be the right one. She’s barely begun to scratch the surface in here.

Still, Spencer can’t get back to her cell fast enough to relay this information about the disappearances. Mysteries are her anti-drug, and she always was the super-sleuth of the team. The list of questions in her mind is expanding rapidly, and maybe her cellmates will have some answers. They do kind of resemble Hanna, Emily, and Aria, if she squints a lot. Maybe she’ll get to relive some glory days _and_ put an end to her boredom.

God help her, Spencer’s genuinely excited about something. And it beats reading more terrible lesbian smut from Quinn’s stash.

Boomer’s back on duty now, and she doesn’t seem to be leading Spencer back to the cell block. They go down a long hall that contains all the various rooms for rec time classes, ending with the library. There’s another woman in a P.M.S. uniform already standing outside the bathroom, someone Spencer hasn’t seen before named K. Greggs. The two guards acknowledge each other with a subtle nod, and Boomer unlocks the cuffs and gives Spencer a push into the locker room.

 _Oh, right, shower time._ She’d honestly forgotten.

“Ten minutes!” Boomer calls from behind her before she closes the door.

_Just what do these people think she does in here?_

The showers are almost empty, anyway, so she strips down and bathes as best she can. There’s one other girl, someone Spencer hasn’t seen before -- a short brunette with bushy curls and a young-looking face -- halfway through her shampoo routine. It's a little weird seeing someone for the first time when they're naked, but Spencer realizes the girl's having the same experience, so it's probably not a big deal.

When Spencer approaches a shower head she hasn’t used before, one far enough away to give her some privacy, the girl turns and says, “The cold’s faulty on that one,” in a British accent.

“Thanks.”

Spencer wonders how a new girl could possibly know that, but doesn’t ask. She can’t have been on the ship for too long, since, like Spencer, she's not under period quarantine either. Spencer wants to ask her name but thinks better of it. They’re alone, which makes her an easy target. This girl looks kind enough but could be a violent lunatic, for all she knows.

Spencer finishes her business and huffs in frustration as she dresses, because this uniform is the height of discomfort when wet. It’s ludicrous that a prison facility that can afford a gravity simulator can't buy even a few towels. And now she’s cold and soggy and dripping, and everything is just awesome.

 _“Time’s up!”_ Boomer’s voice echoes off the yellow tile, and Spencer is surprised when the girl turns her water off, too, and follows her out. The girl walks up to Greggs and holds her hands out to be cuffed, then they silently start toward the cell block with Boomer and Spencer right behind.

When the group reaches cell 10, Spencer notices Aphasia bolt upright in her bunk at the sight of them. For a moment, the air thickens with tension, though Spencer has no idea why. It’s like Aphasia is seeing a ghost, but she doesn’t exactly look scared. It’s not until Greggs leads the girl away and out of sight that Aphasia relaxes and settles back in.

Boomer unlocks and slides the door open and shoves Spencer back inside. Home, sweet home.

Quinn’s sitting on Mack’s bunk, pushing aside the cup waving in her face, muttering about vomit-flavored wine coolers. She focuses on Spencer, whose hair is dripping onto the floor as she sloshes over to her bunk, and casually says, “Go for a swim?”

Spencer ignores her.

She turns behind to Aphasia, looking back out into the empty hall. “Who was that?” Until now, it seemed all the connections between inmates were very superficial -- cellmates, lunchmates, enemies for stupid reasons, acquaintances on a last-name-basis only. This is clearly different.

Aphasia takes a deep breath, still staring through the bars, and quietly says, “Hermione.” Before Spencer can ask anything else, she picks up her orange chalk and resumes scribbling on the wall. It looks like some kind of deformed otter.

Something tells Spencer not to press. If _Aphasia_ doesn’t have anything to say, it must be some pretty serious shit. No matter -- there are much more important things to discuss.

Spencer sits next to Quinn on Mack’s bunk and says in a low voice,“You guys will never believe what I just heard.” 

“Move your soggy ass!” Mack kicks her lower back twice, hard, forcing Spencer to squat on the floor in front of them instead.

She can’t help but hope the fabric in the crotch holds out just a little longer.

Spencer sorts through all the info clamoring in her head to present the most relevant bits first, and leads with, “Who’s Aeryn Sun?”

“Some mean lady,” Mack says, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the water stains off her sheets. “She was in my Knives class.”

“Do you know that she’s _dead?”_  Spencer asks.

Mack isn’t fazed. “Figures.”

“What? Why? What'd she do?”

“What do you care?” Mack asks, stretching out on the bed.

“If we can be offed at any minute in here, that's _kind of_ relevant to my interests,” Spencer says. “I don’t want to live on high alert every day trying not to get stabbed.” It sounds weird saying it out loud, like she’s in a movie. How is this a part of her life now? Except, wait. This was absolutely what her life was like before.

Mack _pffts_ and says, “Who'd want to stab _you?_  Besides me.”

“Maybe the same person who got to Aeryn Sun.”

Quinn seems to be waiting for Spencer to say something interesting.

“You knew that?” Spencer asks her. “The warden said somebody tore her apart.”

“She did just kind of disappear,” says Mack. “I figured she got out.”

“Like Stacey,” Quinn adds.

That rings a bell.

“Wait, Stacey Merkin?” Spencer asks.

Quinn furrows her brow. “You know her?”

“She your ex?” Aphasia asks.

“No, I --” Spencer considers telling the truth, but saying, _“I saw her name in a spider web”_   feels like asking a bit too much from these three right now. “-- heard someone mention her in the caf.”

“Lots of girls get out,” says Mack. “Vause said Stacey got parole. She had high up connections, press reporter and all that fancy shit.”

“So, you don't think she's dead,” Spencer confirms.

Mack rolls her eyes and starts doing push-ups on the floor, clearly bored with the conversation. “No skin off my ass.”

“Is this a regular thing, then? Girls going missing?” Spencer asks. She's not giving up on this yet. “What about that Jenny girl?”

Pushing up from the ground, Mack laughs and almost loses her balance. “Oh, she’s dead for sure.”

“You said she was vented outside, right?” asks Spencer. “But why?”

“Hell if I know.” Mack lowers herself again and grimaces. “Everyone fucking hated her.”

“Mmhmm,” Aphasia agrees with some attitude. She snips a piece of fingernail off with scissors, then files it down with sandpaper.

Quinn adjusts her position on the bed and shrugs. “I thought she was alright.”

“And the warden's the one who airlocks people?” Spencer stumbles a bit over the word “airlock” because this all seems way too science fiction right now.

“No, it's Little Bo Peep,” Mack huffs as she pushes through another rep. “You sure ask a lot of stupid questions. You writing a term paper, Brain Trust? Wait, you’ll need this for your bible-ography --” And she farts.

“It's important!” Spencer insists over their laughter; even Quinn’s biting back her reaction, trying to play it cool but failing. But Spencer's not going to just let them sweep this under the rug. She had enough of her share of girls going missing back in Rosewood. She’ll be damned if she just sits back and lets it happen again. Though, maybe shame on her for thinking things would be different in this next phase of her life. Is she cursed or something? She lies down and stares up at Aphasia’s bed frame like all the answers will become clear. “Asking questions is what keeps me alive.”

Mack laughs again and pushes up from number nineteen. “Sure. Until it gets you dead.”

There’s truth to that, but Spencer's looking at the bigger picture, even if her cellmates aren't. Either way it slices, Sue Sylvester's lying to someone. From what she said on the phone, it sounds like she's just chalking the disappearances up to random acts of prison violence. Spencer didn't hear anything about airlocking prisoners, though that certainly can’t be routine procedure. And if Sue's covering that up, who knows what else she's hiding?

It could be simple enough to kill prisoners herself and then lie about it to the authorities. Blame it on the violent, baseless inmates. Who would question that? Sue gets to throw out whomever she wants, building an environment of fear to keep the girls toeing the line, and there's no slap on the wrist for it. For all Spencer knows, there's some other perk or kickback that comes from knocking off a prisoner here and there, or bringing in someone new. Sounds like a pretty sweet arrangement.

Spencer's not going to take any chances where the warden's concerned. She dealt with enough dirty cops back home, and the feelings of helplessness and frustration still haven't gone away.

How great to discover that Earth doesn't hold a monopoly on corruption.

For now, Spencer's going to keep her head down and her eyes open. If there's one thing she's good at, it's staying alive when everything around her is crumbling.

“Who'd want to kill Aeryn?” Quinn asks Mack and Aphasia, looking from one to the other.

“Take your pick,” Mack says, standing and brushing herself off before heading to the toilet.

“I never heard anything about it,” says Quinn.

“Christmas?” Aphasia asks.

Mack clarifies for Spencer, “There's always a fight at Christmas.”

Spencer has a brief vision of inmates tearing each other apart over a sparse smattering of crappy, donated gifts under a fake tree in the Mess Hall.

Quinn shakes her head. “I saw her on New Year's. She was going around the Mess with that little bottle, that compatibility liquid or something,” but she sounds as confused as Spencer feels.

“Oh yeah!” Mack remembers excitedly. “And Vasquez decked her when she shoved her tongue in her mouth.”

“Okay, so, what, you think Vasquez did it?” Spencer asks.

“It's possible, I guess,” Quinn says without any hint of concern.

“She was in Knives class after that,” Aphasia adds. “We talked about the best blades for cutting out hearts for Valentine's Day.”

_How lovely._

“So, Vasquez just hung on to that grudge for two months?” Spencer's assembling a timeline, and now she knows Aeryn went missing between Valentine's and her arrival in late March. …She’s pretty sure. But there’s no particular reason why they would hold to the same calendar a million miles into space. “It’s March, right?”

“Jesus, what’s your damage?” Mack asks.

Spencer ignores her. “Would Vasquez really kill someone just for kissing her? And why wait two months?”

Mack unzips and lowers her jumpsuit, looking very bored again. “Why should we care? Lotsa bitches in here got grudges. You can get shivved for looking at someone the wrong way. Here, I'll prove it. Look at me.” She glares at Spencer in a clear attempt to be intimidating, but much of the effect is lost with the whole peeing thing.

“Ew, no.” Spencer shakes it off and refocuses on Quinn, going into full recon mode. Lowering her voice, she breaks the big news. “This morning I overheard a phone call between the warden and _the President_ \--”

Quinn raises one eyebrow.

“How the fuck did you do that?” Mack wipes and stands, her jumpsuit dropping clear to her ankles and boobs just hanging out there.

Spencer really, really didn’t need to see any of that.

“I was in the hall outside her door, and it wasn’t closed all the way. I heard her talking, but she was saying ‘Madam President.’ I can name a lot of foreign leaders, including the few I know who are women, but I have no idea who this one might’ve been.”

“Laura Roslin,” Quinn says without hesitation.

Spencer raises her eyebrows. “Never heard of her.” There’s a pause, but they’re not jumping in to fill in the blanks. “She’s the president of...?”

“Um, _space_ , duh,” Mack says, laughing and looking to Quinn for backup, like Spencer just got shipped in from Stupidtown.

And she’s starting to think that maybe she did.

The look on her face clearly says, _There’s a president of SPACE?_ but now isn’t the time to ask for more about that. “Okay, well, Miss _President of Space_ was calling because Sylvester’s in trouble. It sounds like a lot of prisoners have been dying or disappearing lately.”

“Like since you arrived,” Mack leers. “How interesting.”

Quinn jumps in before Spencer can take the bait. “Stacey left months ago,” she says.

“And I don't think Aeryn was here when I arrived. The warden seemed to think someone new has been responsible for the violence, but I don’t know who that could be. Who else has come in?”

“Only you, princess,” Mack says, like she’s finally interested in this story. She’s walking toward Spencer now, getting up in her face. “So, Aeryn got jumped weeks ago and NOBODY --” she points to Quinn, herself, and Aphasia, “-- heard about it, that’s what you’re saying? Nobody took credit?”

“For all we know,” Spencer says, “the warden killed her herself. But supposedly there’s barely enough left of her to fill a Ziploc bag.”

“Bullshit,” Mack says. “If she was dead, they’d-a told us. But if someone just disappears, she’s back on the world. They keep it quiet so _we_ forget it can happen.” She heads back over to the toilet and pulls out a bottle of brown sludge from behind it.

Spencer prays that’s the wine.

“She’s right,” says Quinn. “Sue’s all about putting the ‘fear’ in ‘atmosphere.’ ” Her face shifts, as if put off by her own pun.

Aphasia’s voice cuts into the conversation out of nowhere. With a proud smile, she turns and shouts, “Look at my turtle!” The new red sketch vaguely resembles an iguana. With eight arms. And wings.

Spencer’s losing her patience. “So, nobody else is worried that inmates have been disappearing without explanation and might be getting killed?”

“In case you haven’t _noticed_ ,” Mack growls, brown liquid smeared across her upper lip that she seems in no hurry to lick clean. “You’re in prison. People die.”

“You don’t want to find out what’s going on?”

Nothing but blank, uninterested stares.

“You’re really not going to help me with this,” she says, softer, looking at Mack, then Aphasia, and then finally Quinn, holding steady there. It’s this moment that reminds her, more than any yet, that she’s not in Rosewood and these aren’t her friends. Spencer's on her own.

“I’ve got Pruno to sell. Try the next sucker,” says Mack.

“Seriously,” Quinn says, exhaling smoke, “it’s fine. We’re the last people to hear anything, and it’s usually false anyway. This is just how things go around here.” Quinn sees Spencer is not appeased, then smiles and says, “Last night you were floating mid-air, surrounded by tampons. Weird shit happens. But that doesn't mean it's all weird. They’re probably out on parole.”

“Fine.” But Spencer knows that’s a load of crap, because she was there and she heard the phone call. She heard the fear in the warden’s voice -- and the arousal, but she’s choosing to forget that part.

Something about all this isn’t adding up.

Borrowing a piece of chalk from Aphasia, she sits on her bunk facing the wall and draws a large bubble map with three big circles that say, “STACEY MERKIN,” “JENNY SCHECTER,” and “AERYN SUN” in the middle. Fast and furious, she adds connection lines with names, dates, facts, anything she can think of that might be related.

She’s quickly amassing a suspect list and soon realizes that _everyone_ is on it. Any of the other prisoners certainly seem capable of kidnapping, assault, murder, you name it. She lists all the inmates she knows and makes descriptions of those she doesn’t, but she’s only covered maybe half the prison. The guards are fair game, too, given that they have access to all the prisoners.

Her mind drifts back to Quinn's comment about weirdness. How does the gravity work, exactly? It has to be some kind of device emitting a force that could be turned on and off. If so, could it be cut to create a diversion? Does anyone besides Raven have access to it?

And then there’s Sue Sylvester, herself. If she’s having issues with violence, why not bring in more guards? Why not strengthen security measures? What does she have to hide? Who’s this new person who she thinks is taking her people out? And who’s to say she isn’t behind the whole thing and just covering it up? If there was some financial or political motive behind it, like if she gets incentives for each new prisoner she admits, she could totally be knocking off inmates to make room for more. Not too many, and not all at once, just enough to keep it from looking suspicious. After all, Mack was right -- there are a lot of crazy bitches in here. Anything could happen.

After twenty minutes of furious scribbling, her yellow chalk piece is down to a nub and the wall is nearly full. It’s quite an impressive masterpiece, if she does say so. She turns to look for Charlotte, the only one in the cell who might appreciate her weaving of words, but both the spider and her web are nowhere to be found.

Boomer slides a plate of five stale peanut butter sandwiches under the bars. With classes canceled, Spencer isn’t going to get any time to work through her various theories free from distractions, and she's stuck with the very people refusing to help her.

This whole Shark Week thing is really starting to bite.


	14. Mistress Berry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer’s used to the sound of Mack climbing up into Quinn’s bunk by now -- and the moans that ensue -- but this time, Saturday after dinner, she finds herself more than a little irritated.  “Ugh, seriously?” she yells at the two of them. “It’s _Shark Week_.”

Braced for the worst, Spencer pokes her head out from under her sheet and looks up. Surprisingly, Mack’s still fully clothed, even as she appears to be...well, grinding down with one thigh between Quinn’s legs. Spencer’s no prude; she knows exactly what those two are up to -- They’re _ignoring her_.

At least now she has an explanation now for why all the uniform crotches are so threadbare.

She freezes for a moment wondering who may have done _that_ in this uniform before she came around.

_Oh god._

But then the noise starts back up again, and Spencer rolls onto her back with a huff. She’s choosing to ignore the side of herself that kind of wishes _she_ were up in that bunk and not Mack. But a Hastings never dry humps (and especially not with women).

“Why is this much sex even _allowed?_ It’s prison. You’d think they’d want us to be miserable all the time...” Spencer mutters mostly to herself. Then again, there _is_ a library full of porn just down the way.

Aphasia shifts around in the bed above her, then pokes her head over the side. “Girl, you don’t wanna see them when they frustrated,” she says.

Spencer can’t disagree with that.

“Hey,” she asks, “who’s Hermione?”

Aphasia’s expression changes in an instant, and Spencer knows that she’s said the wrong thing.

“I don’t talk about that.”

Then, just as quickly, Aphasia’s demeanor shifts back to the happy-go-lucky girl who’s content to make chalk drawings on her wall. This time it looks to be some kind of yellow walrus-bird.

****************

Late Sunday evening, Spencer hears the distant, now familiar clunk of the cell block door opening. But there is a sharp, clacking sound that has to be...Stilettos?

 _Huh,_ Spencer thinks. _This is new._

She slowly sits up in her bunk and leans forward, trying to see who’s approaching. Has her mother finally arrived to pull her from this homoerotic hellhole? _About fucking time._

“Mom?” she calls out, though she still can’t see anyone yet.

Suddenly, a whip cracks through the air, and Spencer falls off the bed.

The stranger strolls into view, a short brunette dressed in all black, skin-tight leather and a corset. Spencer, face-down on the cold floor, starts at the six-inch heels and slowly follows a chain of bedazzled gold stars up the knee-high boots to the edge of a dangerously short dress that isn’t hiding anything, at least from this angle. And now Spencer is very glad this woman is not, in fact, of any relation to her whatsoever.

“Until we have negotiated the full terms of a contractual agreement, you may not address me in this manner. Your legal representation can apply for a mommy/daughter relationship at the appropriate time.”

“I…” But Spencer doesn’t have any idea what to say to that.

Aphasia wakes up and looks out to see their visitor. “It’s Halloween again?! You trick-or-treatin’? Damn, where’s my candy!” She starts digging under her mattress frantically.

Quinn, up in her bunk, rolls her eyes and says, “Rachel, let it go. I am _not_ coming back to Glee club.”

The dominatrix’s confidence vanishes instantly, and she looks left and right to see if anyone is watching. Then, she steps in close to the bars and sputters in a whisper, “That’s not why I’m here!”

“Uh huh,” Quinn replies and lies back down.

Rachel seems almost apologetic. “But since you brought it up, I’ll just say that Glee is there for you whenever you’re ready, and always will be.”

“I’M. IN. SPACE. PRISON.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” she repeats quickly, clearly needing the last word in this.

And with that, the authoritative demeanor returns. Rachel steps back again and cracks her whip, even louder this time. Spencer scrambles back onto her bed and wonders what the hell kind of Glee club these people were ever in together.

“Found it!” Aphasia shouts randomly, holding up an orange plastic pumpkin with a black handle. “Girl, I got you,” she says to Rachel. “You want Milky Way or Snickers?”

Rachel opens her mouth to make an announcement but stops mid-syllable, seeing the chocolate held out before her. She quickly reaches for a Milky Way and says, “Thank you,” politely and, “Happy Halloween.” She’s going with it.

Tucking the candy bar into one of her boots, Rachel clears her throat and holds her arms out. “May I have your attention, please!” Rachel shouts, addressing the entire block. “My name is Mistress Berry. As many of you surely know by now, I am here to present you with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I can make your wildest dreams come true.”

And yet Spencer gets the feeling this woman isn’t a cruise director.

“I will select one lucky lady to accompany me on a most exciting adventure.” She pauses and looks right at Spencer. “An adventure...of _pain_.”

Spencer gulps and brings her knees in a bit closer.

Mistress Berry continues, now pacing. “You will be at my service and under my control, to see to my every desire and whim and need.” A glance at Quinn. “And I do mean _every_.” She continues. “Each day we spend together will reduce your prison sentence accordingly. You can negotiate your release back here after two years, should you still have the strength to do so.” She stops pacing and turns halfway. “Not that anyone one ever has.”

Spencer is almost considering going along with it, if only to get away from the insanity of this place. She’s not feeling up to solving the mystery of disappearing prisoners alone right now -- a crime which she has dubbed the work of the ‘gAy Team,’ as that seems certain to fit no matter who’s the culprit. She considers whether or not this terrifying little woman could be a suspect, but it seems much more likely it’s someone who’s been here all along. If this were a legitimate way out of this deathtrap, would she take it? She could submit to someone, right? How hard could it be?

“You will not want to disappoint me,” the woman said with a hint of warning. “My fathers taught me the joy of rifle hunting at a young age, along with ballet and singing, of course. I always had a knack for eliminating my competition in pageants, one way or another.”

_...What._

“Oh, just get on with it,” Quinn says under her breath.

Mistress Berry extends her arm. “Guard, bring me the names.”

Boomer cautiously approaches with a black leather drawstring pouch that perfectly matches its owner’s outfit, then quickly scurries away to safety.

“Each of your names is in this bag, some more times than others.”

Spencer glances up at Quinn, who is staring at the ceiling and mouthing along with every word, like she knows it by heart.

“I confess I do take significant pleasure in breaking a young, hopeful spirit, so the warden is always kind enough to tip the scales toward the newer inmates.” Mistress Berry grins at Spencer with a wink.

Spencer looks away and notices a new web Charlotte must have made during this spectacle.

**_BERRY’S BITCH._ **

She swears she can hear the spider laughing at her.

Mistress Berry reaches into the pouch with a gloved hand. “My newest companion will be --”

“I VOLUNTEER!”

Startled, Spencer turns toward the new voice behind her. A girl she’s never seen before pushes Mack and Aphasia out of the way and clamors toward the bars.

_The fuck?! Where did SHE come from?!_

“I VOLUNTEER AS SUBMISSIVE!!!”

Mistress Berry stomps her foot. “But I haven’t even drawn a name yet!”

“I VOLUNTEER! TAKE ME! TAKE ME!” the girl shouts. She’s shaking the bars emphatically with each word.

With a huff, Mistress Berry withdraws her hand from the bag. “Fine, whatever.”

Boomer unlocks the cell, and the girl can’t throw herself down fast enough at Rachel’s feet.

The dominatrix lifts a boot and rests it on the girl’s shoulder as their eyes meet. “Mistress Berry is _never_ interrupted.” With a swift push, she kicks the girl over and storms out.

Buffy and Boomer tie up the feisty volunteer and haul her away before she can change her mind.

Spencer looks at her cellmates, who don’t seem nearly as confused as she is. Apparently, this kind of thing happens all the time. Mack’s intently cleaning under her fingernails with her toothbrush, and Quinn’s already back asleep.

Aphasia breaks the silence and laughs to herself. “Man, I forgot Katniss was even in here!” At Spencer’s stunned expression, she adds, “She real good at hidin.’ ”


	15. A Dream Within a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It's enough to send Spencer into full-blown paranoia.

Learning that someone has been living under her bed for two weeks -- other than Charlotte, of course – sets her skin crawling. She falls asleep that night with everything she's seen thus far whirling in her head.

Suddenly, she's in the Mess Hall, and there's too much happening at once to make any sense of it. Mistress Berry sits with a tray full of waffles, feeding them to Aphasia, who's strapped down on top of one of the tables as Becky watches, playing her xylophone. A group of women is throwing knives at other inmates, who are reaching up and catching them, then throwing them back. Spencer realizes that all the classes are happening at once. River's sitting in a circle of girls, reading aloud from _Fifty Shades of Grey_. Violet's finishing a full-body tattoo on Mack with her ballpoint pen. Lucy is constructing a gigantic Play-Doh animal, like Clifford the Big Red Dog, only not any recognizable species. Speaking of animals, a raccoon is chasing after Clarke, somehow carrying what must be a hundred lit candles all at once. And there's a woman walking around just completely covered in bees.

Spencer turns to run away, but the hallway goes dark. It's longer than she remembers, and she can't see or hear anything. And then, she runs face first into a giant spider web. She pushes through it, desperately brushing the thread away, but there's just more and more. It's never ending. And then the lights come on, and Spencer can see the entire corridor is covered in webbing. There are giant cocoons here and there, large enough to hold people in them. Screaming, Spencer runs back toward the Mess Hall to get the hell out, but as soon as she turns around, she sees a new web, this one in clear writing.

**_I KILLED JENNY SCHECTER._ **

Consumed with panic, Spencer screams again, this time loud enough to wake herself up. She scrambles out of the bed and runs to the toilet, standing on it and almost falling in. Her eyes dart around the cell, looking for any sign of Charlotte. She knows it was a dream, but it felt so _real,_ and it doesn't seem like a stretch of the imagination that the spider could write something like that. Still, the notion of a tiny spider killing people in space is ridiculous. Spencer’s pulse isn’t slowing as quickly as she’d like, and she shivers again at how creepy the whole thing was.

Friendly to Animals Time is over now. Having a little pal’s been nice, but Spencer’s not going to take any chances, not after that dream. She should’ve squashed it on Day One.

 _“...The fuck, Hastings?”_   she distantly hears Mack growl, accompanied by the rustling of sheets as the others wake.

Spencer whips around to face Mack. “There’s a spider in my bed, and I’d really, really rather there not be.” She’s pointing wildly at her bunk as she speaks, which probably isn’t helping her look any less crazy, perched up on the chrome throne.

Quinn sits up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “What?”

Aphasia hangs over the side of her bunk and peers into Spencer’s own. “Where he at?”

“I don't know, somewhere over there. Maybe underneath. It's been there all week!”

Mack snarls, “Then why the _fuck_ are you screaming about it now?” It's a fair question.

“Because I had a nightmare, okay? There was a giant web that said, _'I killed Jenny Schecter.’_ ”

“Aww,” Mack says, “Wittle Spencer had a bad dweam? Jesus, fuck _off_.” 

Boy, Spencer's so glad she's fully awake.

Mack pulls off her left shoe and chucks it at her with barely enough force to cover the distance. It hits Spencer's stomach and falls right into the toilet. _“FUCK!”_

Aphasia shakes her head and mutters, “I hate spiders!”

Quinn sighs, like she's the parent who has to go investigate the disturbance downstairs while the kids stay safely in bed. She climbs down and approaches Spencer's bunk, peering under the frame, then kneeling on the floor to check there. “I don't see anything.”

“She's there,” Spencer affirms.

“A space spider,” Quinn repeats. She's not buying it.

“Maybe Katniss taught it how to hide from your sorry ass,” Aphasia says. “Good luck.”

It’s all Spencer can do to keep herself from tearing her hair out in frustration. She climbs down from the toilet and sits on it, refusing to get any closer to her bunk. “Did Jenny ever say anything to you about a spider?”

Quinn's checking the underside of the frame again, banging it hard to see if anything scurries out. “No. She mostly just talked to herself.”

“About what?”

Another shrug. “Nothing, really. She was a bit...overdramatic. And angry. Really angry.”

 _But I’ve been talking to Charlotte here,_ Spencer thinks, _so who’s to say Jenny wasn’t simply doing the same?_

Quinn lifts the mattress and seems convinced there's nothing out of the ordinary there. “There’s something called night terrors. Where you think you’re seeing something real while you’re still half-asleep? That’s probably all it was.” She pauses for a beat. “There’s a lot of scary shit up here that will kill you, but not spiders.”

Spencer wants nothing more than to go back in time and show them the spider when it first appeared. Why was she so intent on keeping her fucking mouth shut? Now they think she’s crazy, and she has no way to establish any credibility unless the spider comes back. “I know what I saw,” she grumbles, crossing her arms.

“We’ve been here for a year and we’ve never seen no damn spiders,” Mack says. “Your dumb ass couldn’t even find a _whole person_ , and she was right under your bed half the time.”

_Oh, yes, thank you for the fucking reminder._

Mack’s having too much fun to stop now. “What would they even eat?  WE'RE IN _SPACE_.”

That group quietly ponders that for a moment, but then Aphasia looks aghast. “Oh shit!” she cries. “WHAT IF IT TOOK MY BUGS?!” She turns around, pulls the wall-side edge of her mattress up, and begins rummaging under it in a frenzy.

Spencer jumps back and out of the way. “You have _bugs?!_  WHY do you have bugs?!”

Aphasia pulls out a jar with holes punched in the lid, one hole much wider than the others. It’s empty. “SHUT THE FUCK DOOR,” she shouts angrily. She pushes a finger through the largest hole, like she’s never seen it before, then looks through it into the empty jar. “IT ATE MY BUGS!” She turns to Spencer. “You kill that bitch dead.”

Well, at least now one person believes her. That’s a start.

Quinn walks over to Spencer and squeezes her arm. “Hey. You okay?”

It’s the first ounce of sincere concern she's received thus far. “Not even slightly.” Spencer sighs heavily and tries to turn down the sarcasm a bit. “I’m not sleeping over there anymore until someone shows me a dead spider.” It's not like she has a lot of options, but that doesn't matter right now.

Quinn laughs softly in leans forward to whisper in Spencer’s ear, “You can always bunk with me again.” It sends a shiver up Spencer’s spine.

That’s happening a lot lately. Far too much.

Still, the option is enticing, far more than the alternatives: Mack, Aphasia, the toilet, or the floor. And Quinn _is_ rather warm and comfortable.

Not that she enjoys cuddling other women. Obviously.

There's nothing she can say right now, so she just nods as Quinn takes her hand and says, “Come on.”


	16. All Clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It’s interesting, the things you get used to after time. Like spongy, crusty tuna casserole, or showering without a towel, or watching people drink brown sludge out of toilets. Or being the baby spoon for a punk lesbian.

Spencer tells herself that it’s for her safety. Quinn is valiantly protecting her from a murderous creature, after all. By keeping an arm draped over Spencer while they sleep, Quinn is more likely to be attacked by Charlotte, for the sheer sake of having that stretch of skin exposed. By sleeping on the wall side, Quinn is giving Spencer the quicker escape, should something happen suddenly in the night. Yes, that all sounds perfectly logical.

As opposed to the very concept that, if her dreams are as prophetic as she likes to believe, there _could, in theory,_ be a killer spider on the loose. This is one of those times when Spencer doesn’t want to be right. But, her record speaks for itself, so they’re not taking any chances. Safety in numbers, even when asleep, right? She ignores the fact that they’re basically sitting (sleeping?) ducks, anyway, as there is no true protection against a killer spider in your living quarters. It’s not like Charlotte wouldn’t be smart enough to find her, a whopping six feet away from her last known location. _...But what if she went for Aphasia instead?_ At the thought, Spencer half-opens her eyes just to check on her bunkmate, and her pulse quickens a bit to discover Aphasia’s not, in fact, in bed at all. Nor is she on the toilet or by the door. Glancing around through her morning haze, Spencer leans over to check the final place, but, no, Aphasia’s not on Mack’s bed, either.

She’s just gone.

“Hey, where’s Aphasia?” Spencer asks Mack, her hair hanging down toward the floor.

Mack grunts angrily into her pillow with eyes still closed, as she _hates_ rising before 3pm. “Piss off.”

“No, seriously,” Spencer says and cringes against the metal frame digging into her chest. “I think something happened to her.” It’s still Shark Week, and there’s no reason anyone would be out of their cells. Right?

“She’s _fine_ ,” Mack grumbles, still face down.

“She’s GONE,” Spencer corrects. “What if it’s the spider!”

Without another word, Mack takes hold of her pillow and swings it blindly, smacking Spencer full force in the face. It stings, and the force almost pushes Spencer off the bed entirely.

Quinn’s hand catches a handful of black uniform just in time, pulling Spencer back. “Whoa,” she says, and she helps a shaken Spencer regain her balance, pushing the mussed hair back into place to see her face clearly. “You okay?”

“Where’s Aphasia?” Spencer says, stronger this time as the concern is building. She turns to look at the empty bunk, and her mind races with the possibilities. None of which make any sense.

“Hey, hey,” Quinn says softly, reaching out to turn Spencer’s chin back to face her. “Don’t worry about her. Trust me.” There’s a beat of silence as Spencer starts to protest, but Quinn cuts her off by running a hand through Spencer’s hair, those hazel eyes locked on her own, and suddenly Spencer can’t remember why she ever wanted to say anything at all.

She’s lost in a sea of warmth and closeness, just the two of them there, and Spencer can’t get enough. The background noise fades into nothing -- the waking conversation in neighboring cells, the bored lines from the guards, the banging on cell bars -- it all disappears, and all Spencer can hear is the sound of her heart pounding in her ears and Quinn gently breathing inches from her face. Every nerve in her body is alive as chills run down her spine with each graze of Quinn’s fingernails against her scalp. Her touch is so soft, yet strong – tender, but intentional. Spencer hadn’t realized just how lonely she’s been for the loving touch of another. There’s a distant click of metal that she can't quite place, but unless the prison is on fire, Spencer’s not looking away from Quinn’s stare for anything. If every day in prison could be like this, it’s a life sentence she’ll gladly serve.

_“Guess you’ve already found something to eat, so I’ll just keep this.”_

Buffy’s voice cuts in and brings Spencer crashing back to reality. She pulls back from Quinn on instinct, like her mother just walked in on her, and turns to see Buffy standing with two plates of cold breakfast in hand, ready to slide through the slot. _Good,_   Spencer thinks, _help us find --_

“Fuck them, I’ll take it!” Aphasia says and jumps down from her bunk.

Spencer whips around so fast, she almost falls off the bed again. Sure enough, her cellmate is right there, clear as day and definitely not eaten by a spider. She gawks, watching the scene unfold as the suddenly materialized Aphasia stuffs waffle blocks into her mouth. Buffy’s gone before Spencer can form actual words. Even then, it’s still mostly sputtering.

“What?” Aphasia asks, chomping on a third beige brick, crumbs dropping all over the floor.

“You’re…here!” Spencer says in disbelief, looking around again to be sure she’s not dreaming this whole thing.

“Of course I am,” Aphasia replies, taking on a more serious tone. She chews and bites again, attempting to appear as nonchalant as possible. “I’ve been here the whole time.” It’s a stated fact, not an argument.

“You were GONE!” Spencer cries.

She runs a hand through her hair and turns to Quinn for backup, but Quinn just puts a hand on her arm and says, “It’s fine, I told you. She’s here.”

“I thought you were DEAD.”

Aphasia walks over to the bed, reaches up, and shoves the last waffle square at Spencer’s mouth, which closes just in time to block it, grimacing. “You keep running your mouth,” Aphasia warns, “you gonna be the one dead.” She slams her breakfast three more times against Spencer’s face, missing her target as Spencer fights to turn away. Spencer slaps at Aphasia with her hands, quite annoyed. They look like siblings bickering in the back of a minivan. Finally, Aphasia relents and says, “Yeah, you keep that mouth shut. That’s what I thought,” and goes back to her own bunk.

Spencer brushes the crumbs off her uniform onto the floor. They’re not an hour into it, and it’s already been A Day.

****************

Two mornings later, on Wednesday, Spencer hears a scattered, repeating progression of _plink-plink-plink-plink_ over the intercom before Becky’s voice shouts, **_ALL CLEAR!_**

“Thank _god_ ,” says Mack, stretching as she wakes. “Get me out of this stench pit.” She shoots daggers at Spencer as she goes for her morning pee, and Spencer backs a little closer into the warmth of Quinn. Nice as it is, she can’t disagree with Mack. They do smell pretty terrible.

They file into the Mess Hall for the first time in a week, and it’s nice to see different faces for a change, even these scary ones. All the little cliques are claiming their usual places, and Spencer takes inventory. It feels important to keep track of who has power in here. Lucy's in the far left corner with her brunettes, who Spencer now knows are named Faith and Santana. (It's not lost on her that it sounds a bit like Lucy has an angel and a devil with her at all times. But chances are that’s not the case.)

She's careful not to make eye contact.

Spencer knows most of the faces in her immediate vicinity by now. There are the chatty and arrogant young guns – Starbuck, Kat, Octavia Blake, Clarke Griffin, Johanna, Nichols, Leslie Shay, Flaca and Maritza -- and the quiet ones – Lexa, River Tam, Lucy Diamond, and Dark Willow – who all sit close to Spencer's table in the middle with the Skanks. (Mack's term, but it fits.) Then, the adults sit on the other end. Some names, she knows for sure -- Corky, Violet, Sarah Connor (the less scary one), Regina Mills, Joan Watson, Sophia Burset, Sameen Shaw, Big Boo, and Vasquez. Other names, she’s still working on -- the zombies instructor _,_ the bee lady _(Bridget? Fidgie? What was it?),_ a hot blonde named Mor-something, and a few more she can’t see clearly from here. They seem to keep their distance from the younger girls, which is fine by Spencer, since they look much more dangerous.

But then there's a definite racial shift at the near end by the door. Spencer asked about this once, when she thought their collective glares were aimed at her for some reason. But no, they were staring down Aphasia. Despite their somewhat mixed ranks, the ringleader, Vee, is very much into a “Black Power” thing, as it was described to Spencer, and she's pissed as hell that Aphasia and Hermione won't join her crew.

“We’re hot shit,” Aphasia had said, “and we got all kinds of stuff that she wants.”

“But?” Spencer prompted.

“She the devil,” Aphasia said, looking more serious than ever before diving back into her tuna casserole. And that was that.

Spencer doesn’t know as many of the women down there with Vee. There’s the other Sarah Connor and that woman afraid of the number four, Jessica Huang. Otherwise, it’s strangers. Taking stock for a moment, Spencer can’t help but notice how tired everyone looks, not just at that end but everywhere. Shark Week seems to have taken a lot out of everyone, literally and figuratively. Spencer’s desperate to talk to someone -- anyone -- who might have also seen the spider and would believe her. But after her own “friends” (if you could call them that) laughed her off, who knows what these other crazies would do if she brought it up. Spencer might quickly find herself as the new cell block punching bag or knife target. She needs to find someone she can trust. Until then, she has to hope she can get through to Quinn.

Spencer lines up to get her tray of toast and tomato soup, and tries not to think about the unlikeliness that it contains actual tomatoes. She plops down next to Aphasia, who doesn’t seem to notice she’s there. Her eyes are on someone across the room. Spencer looks in that direction, and sure enough, it’s that Hermione girl.

Before she ask for the story, Kat cuts in, “Hey, where’s Vause?”

“Who?” Spencer asks, looking around for someone to fill her in.

“She’s usually over there.” Quinn turns to her left to check one of the tables by the door. “With Corky and Violet.”

Spencer thinks back to her first day when she saw their cell. Corky was on the bed with a beautiful woman in glasses, but Spencer never learned her name. That woman, she realized now, was nowhere to be seen.

“You think something happened to her?” Spencer asks suspiciously. The conspiracy theory is back on track.

“She’s probably just taking a leak,” Mack says dismissively.

“I don’t know,” Lucy Diamond says. “They do look pretty sad over there.”

It was true -- Corky and Violet weren’t mounting each other on the breakfast table or even groping each other excessively, just poking at their food in silence. They looked like they hadn’t slept in a week.

“If something _did_ happen to her,” Spencer says, “that makes four since...when? Stacey was first, right?” she asks Quinn.

“January, I think? It was right after the holidays. Jenny said Stacey disappearing was the second best present she could’ve gotten.”

Spencer’s too scared to ask what would’ve been first. Knowing this group, the answer is probably something like “anal beads.”

_...And now I'm done with breakfast._

Looking away, she sees Aphasia is focused on Hermione again. The rest of the table keeps chattering about how hot Alex Vause is and the various positions they’ll use on her if she comes back, but Spencer tunes into the silent communication instead.

Looking left, then right, and taking a deep breath, Aphasia nods at Hermione, who rises from her seat and heads toward them.

She loops through the rows of tables, trying to look innocent but failing, and, to Spencer’s surprise, passes right behind them without stopping. Aphasia shuffles in her seat and watches Hermione reach the end of the row to an open space. All around Spencer, there’s a murmur of _“There she goes again.”_

Hermione stops, now with quite a distance between herself and Aphasia, and turns to face the room. She has a wooden rod in her hand that wasn’t there before, and Spencer is only starting to guess what it might be when there is a sudden, deafening _crack!_ and Hermione vanishes into fucking thin air.

“WHOA!” Spencer shouts. “What was that!”

“Show-off,” mutters Dark Willow, rolling her eyes.

The guards rush in and charge the spot where Hermione once stood, but she’s long gone. The Mess Hall erupts with whooping and hollering, cheering their escaped comrade and laughing at the guards. It’s clear that this has happened before. Hermione isn’t so new after all, and from the look of it, she’s the hero of space prison.

Everyone is celebrating except for Aphasia. Well, and Dark Willow, who’s doing a polite golf-clap.

Spencer can’t help but ask over the noise, “Seriously, what _was_ that? She’s really gone? Like, out-of-here gone?”

Aphasia takes a bite of her sandwich and chews it slowly, staring down at the table as the party continues around them. She swallows and says, sadly, “She’ll be back.”

Then, without missing another beat, Aphasia turns to the girls behind them and gives celebratory high-fives, laughing and joining in the noise like nothing’s wrong at all.

****************

Aphasia and Mack both take Wednesday classes, so Spencer conveniently finds that she and Quinn have the cell to themselves for an hour. They’re up on Quinn’s bunk together, despite having plenty of room to spread out. Spencer is still avoiding her bunk, and they’re quite comfortable together now. They’ve stayed safe this way so far, why stop now?

Their feet are tangled at the end of the bed, and Spencer drifts off, thinking about how something so simple as this can feel so intimate.

She’s looking down at the crisscross of ankles when she notices...an empty space where a pinky toe should be. She instinctively wiggles her toes to see if it’s her foot, but it’s not, _thank god._ For all she knows, a spider bite could make it turn black and fall off in the night or something.

Spencer wonders what happened to Quinn -- _Was she born without it? Did she get hurt?_ \-- but doesn’t feel brave enough to ask. Besides, _“Hey, where’s your toe?”_ isn’t the most polite conversation starter, so she lets it go for now.

Instead, she asks, “I’m going to have to find someplace else to be this evening, huh?” Spencer absently strokes the thin, light hairs on Quinn’s forearm with her thumb. They’ve been snuggling quietly for about fifteen minutes; Quinn might be passed out.

“Hmm?”

“It’s Wednesday. I am _not_ substituting as your spank princess.”

Quinn laughs. “Like Mack would even let you.”

Spencer leans back so she can just barely see Quinn out of the corner of her eye. “She’s crazy, you know that, right?” She feels Quinn’s nose on her ear and shivers.

Quinn hums a little against Spencer’s neck and sighs. “I guess I have a thing for brunettes.” Quinn traces a finger along Spencer’s ear, tucking her hair back, then adds, “You haven’t complained.”

Spencer huffs and flips onto her back, making sure she can look into Quinn’s eyes as she says, “I am _nothing_ like her.” She almost adds, _“And who said I want you to have a thing for me, anyway?”_ but doesn’t. Because that would be crazy talk. She doesn’t give a damn who Quinn has eyes for, really. Just, you know, watch out for weirdos; one friend to another. A gal to her pal.

_And keep doing that thing to my ear, holy Moses._

“No,” Quinn agrees, “Mack’s best talents are day drinking and bad pick-up lines. You, on the other hand, can see invisible spiders and name every country in the former Soviet Union alphabetically.”

“ _And_ I bathe,” Spencer adds.

Quinn pulls back a bit so she can look Spencer in the eye. “You do take a lot of showers,” she says playfully.

Spencer smiles. “I am a total catch.” For a moment, she loses herself in the sensation of Quinn burying her nose once more against the tender skin under Spencer’s earlobe. Her mind flashes, remembering this is hardly the first time Quinn’s cozied up to someone like this. “So, who are all these other brunettes?” she asks, smiling again. “If they're inmates, I totally want to guess.”

Quinn vetoes the idea with an _mm-mm_ and says, “No guessing.” But her tone implies that there’s certainly more to that story. She pauses, then her voice softens. “You already know the most important one.”

Spencer’s heart skips a beat at the thought that Quinn might mean her. But no, that would be ludicrous. And also really gay. And inappropriate. And gay. And narcissistic. And _really, really gay_.

She looks at the ceiling so Quinn won’t be able to see the hope in her eyes. _(Really gay hope. Ugh! Stop!)_ “Who?”

Quinn takes a deep breath. “Rachel. I believe you may remember her as Mistress Berry.”

Spencer bolts upright. “Seriously?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “She wasn’t all...Let’s just say, back in high school she was kind of scary in a different way. More sweaters and knee socks, less leather and high heels. But still really bossy and ambitious.” She shrugs. “Confidence is hot.”

Spencer’s trying to fit together two puzzle pieces that seem, well, not fitty. “You dated the dominatrix in high school. Wow.” She flops back down and laughs once at the thought. But then she feels something else rumbling in the pit of her stomach. It’s either the beef stew from lunch, or...well. She really hopes it’s the stew.

The mattress shifts, and suddenly Quinn’s smirking face is right in front of hers. “Are you jealous?” she asks in a husky voice that twists Spencer’s insides into knots.

Spencer gives a delicate snort. Like she’d even dignify _that_ with an actual answer. She needs a topic change. Right now. So, she removes her right leg from the tangle and lifts it to tap her big toe on Quinn’s foot. “What’s this story?”

Quinn shifts uncomfortably and pulls her foot away, burying it under the sheet with a sigh. “It’s nothing,” she says quietly. There’s a long, awkward silence, and Spencer can tell she has screwed up and crossed a line. But then Quinn adds, “I just trusted the wrong person,” and begins grazing a thumb back and forth across Spencer’s earlobe.

Her breath catches, and it feels like she’s paralyzed.

Quinn gazes at her with a small smile as she curls her fingertips to drag along Spencer’s cheek in a circle. She runs a thumb along Spencer’s lips, eyes watching it slip back and forth, and Spencer’s frozen in time, heart pounding in her ears, because this is happening -- she _knows_ it’s happening -- and she has no idea what to do or what to think about it. And then, before she can take another breath, Quinn moves her thumb away and brings her lips there instead.

And it’s soft, so soft. Spencer’s suddenly lost in the immediate and overwhelming response from her body. She feels blood rushing to her head, feels her skin tingle all over. Then, Quinn flicks a tongue over Spencer’s bottom lip and gently tugs on it with her teeth before kissing her again, a little firmer this time, and Spencer’s off in orbit somewhere. At some point -- _hours later? days?_ \-- Quinn withdraws, but not far, as their noses are still grazing against each other.

Spencer opens her mouth to speak, but only a weak noise comes out. She closes her eyes to reduce the sensory overload and focus on forming words, but it’s useless. She can still feel Quinn’s skin against hers, and now there are fingers laced together, and Spencer’s the one leaning in this time.

As their mouths connect once more, Spencer pushes into the pillow to fight for a better angle, because this is far too fucking good to mess up, and if she’s going to be kissing Quinn, she wants to do it right. Quinn seems to take the hint and lifts herself up until she’s propped on her elbow, towering over Spencer and taking back control of the kiss. Spencer shifts underneath naturally, like they’ve done this a hundred times. But even though she’s used to being on this side of a kiss, back against the bed and warmth above her, that’s the only thing familiar, because _nothing_ Toby ever did compares to what Quinn is doing right now.

Spencer’s taken completely by the new sensations, like she’s never kissed someone before in her life. _And, shit, if this is what kissing is supposed to be_ , she thinks, _then maybe I haven’t._ Her tongue moves delicately against Quinn’s, and it’s so wonderful yet so foreign -- no struggle for power, no clumsiness, no brute force. It’s quite the opposite, the way Quinn parts her lips softly to let Spencer in, or how Quinn’s mouth is almost hovering as they slide against each other. Spencer had no idea a hardened criminal could be so tender. Her body tingles as the softness magnifies each point of contact. It’s almost too much, and Spencer doesn’t know if she wants to cry or keep kissing Quinn, or both.

But then she hears something far away, pulling her back to reality -- The heavy boot steps of her other cellmates and the accompanying guard returning from class hour. Quinn groans and pulls away, and Spencer snaps back to harsh, sobering reality, like waking from a good dream to find your house is on fire.

Quinn drops her forehead to Spencer’s shoulder, uttering a soft, _“Fuck,”_ under her breath, then sits upright and pulls away.

Spencer somehow regains control of her limbs and practically flings herself off the bunk mere seconds before Mack and Aphasia appear, chatting with exaggerated hand gestures about how awesome nipple rings are and how Mack can’t wait for Aphasia’s DIY Piercings class to start tomorrow. Spencer’s frankly a little surprised, through the haze of _I just made out with Quinn_ , that Mack’s nipples aren’t already pierced, but that’s neither here nor there. Aphasia’s follow-up comments for Mack – at least the stray words Spencer’s catching, like “cooch” -- indicate she has some _very_ ambitious lesson plans prepared. Spencer’s not really listening, but she hopes Mack considers lobotomies a DIY piercing. A crucifixion would make an impressive a final project.

As the door closes behind them, Mack shoots Spencer a glare that could cut glass, but her focus only lingers for a second. “Ready for tonight?” she smirks at Quinn.

It’s a performance; Spencer knows it. All the same, the baby hairs on Spencer’s neck stand on end as Quinn hums back, “Always.”

And with that, Spencer’s heart drops into her stomach to join the beef stew and roaring, raging jealousy. She’s on her feet before she even realizes it. “Boomer!” Spencer calls out, waving an arm through the bars and praying the guard hasn’t left the cell block entirely.

Sure enough, Boomer pops into view. “What?” she asks, clearly indifferent to Spencer’s turmoil.

“Any chance I can work in the warden’s office tonight? I’ll do a double shift.”

Boomer scoffs but remains emotionless. “Wow, you really don’t waste any time, do you?”

“Please, I really really need to get out of here.”

“Tough shit, inmate. You get out when I say you get out,” Boomer says. “Not tonight.”

“Please, if I could just talk to Sylv--”

“The warden’s busy,” Boomer says loudly. “And so am I. Keep it in your pants.” As the guard walks back down the hall, Spencer can clearly hear her mutter, “Pervy bitch.”

_Fuck._

But even if she was able to duck out tonight for an hour or so, what the hell is she going to do in the future? She’s in here _for life_. She can’t just avoid these two forever.

Without a proper distraction, Spencer might have to face how she actually feels about that kiss. Which is a lot. But she has absolutely no idea what any of it means.

She really wishes Emily were here to talk to right now. Or Aria. Or even Hanna.

Spencer sighs to herself and considers drawing with Aphasia just so she doesn’t have to even look at Quinn and Mack for the rest of the day. She spares them a glance anyway as she walks toward the back but immediately regrets it. Limbs tangled, hair mussed, they're staring straight at her. She doesn’t know which is worse, Quinn’s unreadable expression or the smug smile etched plainly across Mack’s face as she says, “Hey, Aphasia, get the paddle.”


	17. Never Say Never

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It turns out Aphasia is a tougher Monopoly opponent than Spencer had anticipated. Her cellmate is sitting on several thousand dollars in cash _and_ owns two entire sides of the board. Not only does Aphasia have a strong propensity toward greed and hoarding, she is also quite the savvy businesswoman.

That, or she is just stealing from the bank. It would only be fitting.

“You gonna roll or what?” Aphasia asks Spencer, who’s mentally calculating the rate of return on two houses for the light blues.

“Put that shit away,” Mack interjects. Summoning all her strength, she manages to get up from her bed, where she’s been lying face-down all morning.

It seems Quinn went extra hard on her last night, and Spencer hopes she’s trying to turn Mack off to the scheduled weekly spankings entirely. It’d give Quinn a passive way out from the situation; she wouldn’t be abandoning her duties if Mack just quit. Unfortunately, aside from the occasional wince when she sat on the benches at breakfast, Mack’s not showing any real signs of regret. Crankiness, yes, but that’s typical of a day that ends in Y.

“Why?” Aphasia asks, irritated. “I’m schoolin’ this girl right now.”

“What, you need a fucking court order or something?” Mack snaps. “Need me to say ‘pretty please do it’ like your Mama did when I was banging her last night?”

Aphasia looks sincerely confused. “Quinn ain’t my Mama.”

Mack doesn’t reply, just walks across the board in her bare feet in an attempt to end the game definitively. She instantly stumbles, plastic hotels stuck in her sole, bouncing back and forth and cursing loudly as she falls against the toilet. Her feet no longer able to support her, she falls hard on her ass and screams again.

_The morning is suddenly looking up._

Spencer doesn’t have the energy to fight for her right to continue a game she’s losing (quite dreadfully, in fact), so she helps tidy up Mack’s mess into the box. As the bank thief slips the game back under the mattress, Spencer wonders what other possible things might be under there that Quinn could assault Mack with.

_Barbed wire, perhaps? Or a nail gun? Maybe a machete?_

Her mind wanders, conflating memories of Toby’s murder with the grumpy girl before her, and she delights in thoughts of how Mack’s skull would crack under her croquet mallet. She can almost hear it, if she tries hard enough.

_Sweet, sweet music._

“Now I’m bored,” says Aphasia, still sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“I need to get drunk,” Mack groans. She reaches behind the toilet, just the full length of her arm span from her spot on the floor, and retrieves the bottle of Pruno. It’s still over half full.

“It’s ten in the morning,” Spencer says.

“She had a hard night,” Quinn says, looking up from a library copy of _To Taste Her Nectar_. Spencer hadn’t even realized Quinn was awake. She’s a bit like a cat in how she spends much of her day quietly lounging around, much too cool for anyone, and in and out of sleep except for meals, baths, and crotch-licking.

Setting the book aside, Quinn climbs down to join them on the floor, motioning for Mack to come, too. “Bring it over.”

Mack takes a long swig out of the bottle, grimacing with each swallow, and burps loudly. Spencer can smell it from six feet away. “Still better than Starbuck’s,” Mack says with a wince.

Spencer turns with a dubious look. Though she always supports The Brew over the major corporate chains, this is too ludicrous a claim to let slide. “Yeah, somehow I doubt that.”

Mack holds out a pointing finger and says defiantly. “That shit’ll make you blind.”

“Coffee makes you blind?”

“Who the fuck has coffee?” Mack asks, looking at Spencer like she’s a moron.

“You just…” but the way Mack’s gawking at her proves this conversation is just a dead end of frustration. “Never mind.”

The four sit in a disjointed circle, Quinn and Aphasia leaning against opposite bunks, Spencer facing Mack with her back to the bars. There’s a moment of awkward silence where they all just watch Mack continue to force down the muddy chunks, and Spencer wonders just how much she’s going to drink. This could go from gross to impressive and back to gross very quickly. At least she's near the toilet.

“Never have I ever,” Quinn says, “taken it up the ass.”

Spencer blinks at the incredibly random and private confession, turning around with what must be a bizarre expression. “Umm. Whoa?”

 _“That’s_ a fucking lie,” Mack says, throwing back another glug.

“I know,” Quinn says. Her tone implies it’s obvious and intentional, though Spencer can’t figure out why in the world this conversation is taking place. Quinn reaches for the bottle pointedly, snatching it right out of Mack’s mouth, and takes a sip. Her face crumples in disgust as she barely manages to force it down. “Oh my god, that is _foul_.”

Spencer’s really glad the kissing has already happened, because she surely doesn’t want to know what Quinn’s mouth tastes like right now.

“You’re welcome,” Mack says, taking the bottle back. She turns to Spencer and stares, clearly amused at something. “You ever let ‘em in the back door, Pillow Princess?” she asks, holding out the bottle.

“Who, _me_?” Spencer’s eyes are the size of hubcabs. “What? No. No way. I mean, no. I don’t, no.”

Aphasia tries to hold in a laugh and fails. Spencer glares at her, but that only makes Aphasia laugh harder “Girl, you could make diamonds in there. Get yo-self rich.”

A loud bang on the bars startles Spencer; she didn’t realize just how tightly this situation has her wound. Mack scrambles to grab the bottle and attempts to hide it, but it’s pointless and embarrassingly unsuccessful.

Fortunately, Boomer doesn’t seem to care. “Let’s go.” There’s a large, canvas-covered bin on wheels next to her with the word LAUNDRY stenciled onto the side.

Mack grins and rises to quickly unzip her uniform. “You heard the lady.”

But Spencer’s waiting for the exchange – surely there must be a new uniform coming while her current one’s being washed. Right? That only makes sense.

So, of course, there isn’t.

Laundry Day has just upped the ante on their game quite significantly, turning it to Strip…Whatever It’s Called, as the four girls are left in their undies and bras on the cold floor. If Spencer hadn’t been peeing and showering in front of them for the last two weeks, she’d probably feel even more self-conscious. At the moment, it’s feeling like a summer camp staple gone awry. And Spencer’s trying not to think about how good Quinn looks, because that would be even gayer than kissing her.

Probably.

“Your turn,” Mack says, looking right at Spencer.

Blinking to recover from her daydream, she says, “I don’t understand the rules,” and she means it. So far, all she knows is Rule #1: You will get really embarrassed.

“Say something you’ve never done,” says Quinn. “Anyone who has done it has to drink.”

Spencer’s mind suddenly goes blank. What is she supposed to say? Does it have to be about sex? Can she make something up? These girls don’t know her, not really. She could fake her way through this. She’s a skilled liar.

“Um,” she begins. The pressure is on. The only things coming to mind are things she _has_ done.

_I killed a boy._

_I traveled into space._

_I went to prison._

_I made out with a girl._

“I have never had sex with a girl,” she finally says. _There_ \-- honest, but not far off her mental track. Not far off even a little bit.

Mack rolls her eyes as she drinks from the bottle, then Aphasia passes it over to Quinn. Spencer’s not sure why she’s being judged so harshly when Aphasia hasn’t been drinking anything either. Maybe they think she’s lame for it, or maybe it was too obvious a statement, but at least they believe it. She doesn’t want to _ever_ know what that nasty shit tastes like.

Quinn takes the bottle by the neck and doesn’t hesitate to pay her fine. Mack reaches out for it again and ponders her options for her turn.

“I have never fingered a girl in the church basement during her cousin’s Christening and then made out with her older sister at the house party afterward,” Mack says triumphantly. She laughs and takes another drink. Then three more.

“You need some new material,” Quinn says flatly.

“My turn!” Aphasia says, rocking back and forth on her crossed legs. “Oh! I know. Never have I _ever_ had sex with a dude, ‘cause that’s just nasty.”

_Oh shit._

_Shit, shit, shit._

Mack laughs again and hands the bottle back to Quinn, who reluctantly drinks while shooting daggers at Mack.

Spencer’s heart is pounding, but she tries to play it cool. Then, Quinn holds the bottle out to her with a look that says, _Go on, it’s okay._

“I didn’t...um…” All eyes are on her. So much for not being a shitty liar. “I haven’t…”

“Yes, you have,” says Mack, burping again. “Just drink it.”

_Oh, god._

_No no no no no._

“Look, I’m sorry, I really don’t want--”

“DRINK IT,” Mack shouts. “You think that shit’s easy to make? Do you know how LONG it takes? How much WORK? RESPECT the wine, Maple Tits.” She pauses, squinting at Spencer through her haze. “You don’t want me to feel insulted, do you?” Her voice is downright threatening.

“It’s not that bad,” Quinn lies, and gestures for Spencer to finally take the bottle out of her outstretched hand.

“Drink it before I tell you what’s in it,” Mack says plainly, trying a different tack. At Spencer’s hesitation, Mack looks to Aphasia and says, “What’d we start with, the old meatloaf?”

“Nuh uh, first was that yogurt that went bad but they gave it to us any--”

_Oh god oh god oh god, JUST STOP._

Spencer’s got a mouthful of the putrid, gag-inducing slime before Aphasia can finish her sentence. Explosions of color burst behind her eyelids, and Spencer’s pretty sure she’s going blind. She can feel her teeth rotting in real time. It’s like her mouth has dysentery. Tears stream down her face as she makes herself swallow, jaw quivering, and finally she’s scraping her tongue with her fingers and hearing nothing but her own _“Blehhhhhhhh!”_  She’d throw it up, but then she’d just be reliving it.

“Knew you’d like it,” says Mack, taking the bottle and finishing it off.

 _“Coulda told you that was a bad idea,”_   comes a new voice from just outside the cell.

Spencer blinks several times, trying to focus on the unfamiliar face. It’s a girl about her age in a P.M.S. uniform, leaning against the bars with her arms crossed. She doesn’t appear to be armed with anything but a know-it-all smirk.

“When you’re ready for something that doesn’t make you want to die five times,” the girl continues, “tell Boomer the toilet’s backed up and have something useful to trade. Going rate for a can of ninety proof is a digital watch and four Starburst.”

Spencer laughs. “Where am I supposed to get that?”

“Not my problem.”

“Aww, Raven,” Mack says, pouting at her competition with fake empathy, “are you not smart enough to know the big hand points to the hour?”

“That’s the minute hand,” Quinn says.

“Shut up!” Mack says, whipping around. “I was testing her!”

Raven ignores the riffraff and looks at Spencer. “I’ll be around.”

Spencer has so many questions, but Raven’s already out of sight. “Who was that?”

“She works for Sue,” Quinn replies.

“Sue needs a bartender?”

Quinn takes a long drag off a cigarette. “She’s a mechanic, supposedly. Mostly she just peddles vodka from the engine room. Probably makes a better living that way.”

“She takes all my customers!” Mack objects.

“Don’t hate the girl for having a successful business strategy,” Aphasia tells her. “Maybe you should play some Monopoly with us.”

Quinn taps some ashes into the open bottle of Pruno.

“Suck a dick,” Mack says. “I already have plenty of reasons to hate her.”

“Like what?” Spencer asks. If this girl both works for Sue _and_ is running a prison black market, god only knows how dangerous she could be.

“Buffy says Raven’s super smart. Like, got-into-NASA-at-sixteen smart. I think she got a sixteen-thousand on her SATs.” Mack cracks her knuckles. “I mean, how did she even end up in this shithole? If she’s so smart, why the fuck is she _here_? I asked if she has some kind of record, maybe Sue’s got something on her, but Boomer says the girl’s squeaky clean.” Mack points a finger to punctuate her words. “Not a _single bad thing_ has ever happened to her. Never broke a window or a bone or _nothing_. That’s some charmed life shit.”

“Mmhmm,” Aphasia hums in agreement.

“I say, fuck people like that. Thinking they’re better than everyone else. Thinking they can just waltz in and take over what _I_ worked hard to build? If she keeps showing her face in my territory, something’s gonna break all right.”

“Right before Starbuck breaks both your legs,” Aphasia says.

Mack flips her off with both hands. “I’d like to see her try. Drunk motherfucker.”

“She’s in on this vodka thing, too?” Spencer asks.

Aphasia laughs. “Mmhmm. Raven’s the brain, Starbuck’s the pain.”

“Catchy,” Spencer says flatly.

Mack scowls and mumbles, “Pain in my ass.”

“They’re _business_ partners,” Aphasia tells Spencer, suggestively raising her eyebrows. Then she makes a crude gesture with her hands, poking one finger in and out of her closed fist. _“Sex_ business.”

Quinn laughs but doesn’t refute it. “They’re kind of the celebrity couple of the prison that everyone’s obsessed with,” Quinn says.

“Not me!” Mack insists, but no one’s listening.

Quinn smiles at Spencer and says, “Everybody loves Starven.”

Well. There’s a prison catch-phrase if she’s ever heard one.

****************

Mack passes out a few minutes later, much to Spencer’s delight, and Aphasia crawls back to her bunk to play Solitaire with a set of coasters. Quinn’s most of the way through her book, and it’s killing Spencer that she isn’t up there with her, kissing or cuddling or just being close. She can’t climb up without shaking the bed, which means risking waking Pruno Mars over there. Of course, Quinn could always come down to _her_ bed, she realizes. Strange that it never occurred to her to ask before. (With no new spider sightings as of late, she’s felt moderately safe lying on it with the lights on for a little bit at a time, just not at night.) But Mack would have an even better view of them when she woke up, so it’s still a no-go.

“Does anyone have anything I can do?” she asks the room quietly, lying on her back.

She can feel Aphasia’s weight shift as she moves to the end of her bed. Spencer can’t see the corner of the mattress lift above the metal frame, but she hears the sound of digging. After a few seconds, an outstretched arm appears, holding a disorganized Rubik’s cube.

Spencer hasn’t ever tried these, as she never had endless hours to spare back home, but it’s a welcome sight now. Added bonus, it looks like Aphasia could never finish it, so Spencer has the chance to show her up. “Thanks.” 

Fifteen minutes later, she’s gotten nowhere, just moving rows around aimlessly. “These are pretty tough, huh.”

“Not really,” Aphasia replies.

“You don’t think so?”

Aphasia’s arm pops back into view with a reaching hand, gesturing for her to give it back.

“Uh, okay,” Spencer says, handing it to her, more than a little annoyed. Now what’s she going to do for the next few hours? Listen to Aphasia peel off and rearrange the stickers while Spencer counts the screws in her bed frame for the hundredth time? _Thrilling._

Less than two minutes later, the cube is thrust back into view, each side a perfect solid color.

Spencer sits up. “You’re shitting me.” She takes it from the girl’s hand and examines each face. Sure enough, it’s done, stickers fully intact.

“Keep it,” Aphasia says.

And just like that, Spencer’s reminded yet again that nothing in this place is as it seems. She turns the cube over in her hand again and again, as if she’ll find a flaw, something new, if she just keeps looking. At the sound of Quinn putting her finished book away, Spencer turns to just watch her for a minute. Mack’s still out cold and won’t see her staring.

Spencer wonders what pieces she needs to turn, what moves to make, to solve the puzzle of Quinn. She wonders if everything is as much of a mess as she thinks, or if she’s only a few steps away and just can’t see it. Either way, she loses.

As if right on cue, “Hung Up” starts blaring over the intercom, kicking off Power Hour.

_Every little thing that you say or do, I’m hung up, I’m hung up on you…_

Spencer throws the cube on the floor, louder than she means to, and turns over to face the wall with a grunt. She really needs something new to think about.


	18. The Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It’s Friday afternoon, just a quiet hour like any other, when Spencer hears the sound. Layered tones, kind of a whirring, whooshing noise -- in and out like breathing, only mechanical. It’s getting louder with every pulse.

_Oh fuck, hull breach! We’re all going to get sucked into space!_

But there are no alarms, no announcements, no screams.

It’s like a screeching now, and Spencer blinks in disbelief. In the corridor right outside her cell, something large and blue is appearing and disappearing, like it’s blending into reality in time with the sound.

“Hello?” Spencer says loudly, but she’s alone in the cell. The others are at classes, and there are no guards in sight.

The echo of the sound is deafening now.

“UM. HELP?! SOMEBODY?”

But she can’t even hear her own voice over the noise. The blur beyond the bars solidifies, and Spencer reads the words “POLICE Public Call BOX” across the top of the wooden spaceship.

_A phone booth? What the hell?_

The noise dies down finally, and the door to the box opens. A red-headed woman in a brown leather jacket steps out with a hand on her hip.

“Oy! Spaceman!” she calls back inside, “What the _hell_ kind of holiday is this?”

A thin man with spiky hair and black-rimmed glasses pokes his head out from behind the door. “Prison, looks like.”

 _“Space_ prison?” she asks. Spencer can’t tell if the woman is unsure or annoyed. Maybe both.

“One of hundreds across the galaxy,” he says. He’s got some kind of glowing silver and blue contraption in his hand, about the size of a carrot, and is scanning the air and walls, then Spencer’s cell. The high-pitched buzz sets Spencer’s teeth on edge. “Home to the most nefarious criminals in the universe. Nasty types, best not to engage.”

The woman looks right at Spencer and says, “You! What’d you do?”

But before Spencer can respond, the man puts out a hand, looking around frantically, then at Spencer, then around again, as if they’ve just awoken a giant monster that’s going to eat them. “Shh shh shh shh! Nooo, no no no no. That’s it, back in the TARDIS. Off we go.”

The woman looks as confused as Spencer feels. “But we’ve _only just arrived_.” Oh, she is pissed. “This was your bloody idea! You know, typical day: distress call, we almost get ourselves killed, blah blah blah?”

“Nope, false alarm, sorry.” He puts his hands on her shoulders and tries to physically push her back in.

“Wait a bloody minute!” She bats at him, smacking him several times on the face and shoulder before he relents. “What kind of prison is this, anyway?” she asks, looking from cell to cell. “Bad Bitches of the Bellorian Galaxy?”

_This woman’s sass puts Hanna to shame._

“She doesn’t look so bad,” the woman says, pointing back at Spencer.

_Thank you. I think._

He leans in close to the woman’s ear, but Spencer can hear him, just barely. “It’s a _lesbian prison_.”

“HEY!” Spencer starts, “I’m not -- “, then she stops, not wanting to draw more attention.

The woman seems too intrigued and doesn’t bother whispering in her disbelief. Quite the opposite, in fact. She looks back at Spencer like a zoo exhibit. “They have LESBIANS in SPACE?”

“Oh yes,” the man says. “Almost exclusively, in my experience. Now, back inside we go!”

“But!” She’s protesting as he leans his whole weight on her. _“SPACE LESBIANS!”_

The woman’s grip gives way and the door slams. The shrieking whoosh is somehow even louder this time, if that’s possible, but still no guards or alarms or anything to acknowledge something’s amiss. The wooden box fades in and out until it’s gone, and Spencer has no fucking clue what just happened. That’s twice now in a week she’s seen something disappear into thin air right in front of her eyes. 

She has to wonder, if it’s so easy to get out of this place, why can’t she do it herself?


	19. Working It Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

The next week crawls by at a snail’s pace. Each day, Spencer finds herself trapped in a mind loop of, “I wonder what’s happening back home,” followed by, “I’ll never see home again, so what’s the point?” Then it’s, “Maybe I’ll take a class after all.” But she reviews the course list in her mind and quickly remembers why she's abstained thus far. After that it’s, “Maybe I’ll go get some books!” But then she considers the available titles. And really, reading about fictional women getting to do all the things she can’t would only make her ongoing frustration worse.

It’s like cell 10 has a fucked-up custody agreement where Quinn belongs to Mack during the day but then is Spencer’s at night. Only, Mack isn’t clued in on all the details, and the deal is shit anyway. When Spencer does get to climb up next to Quinn, she’s too afraid to start a conversation and piss off the psycho below. Instead, their exchanges are mostly physical – not sexual but still intimate. She’s trying to push the boundaries of touchy-feely with neck rubs and the like when they’re out of direct line of sight, or sneaking a silent kiss when she can. But those moments are few and far between, because Mack is _very_ observant when it comes to Quinn.

Spencer’s beginning to think maybe she did just imagine Charlotte and her webs. Hallucinogenic drugs injected into the food, or something. Her bunk looks more like the safe haven she needs it to be with each passing day, but Spencer’s not quite willing to relinquish the few uninterrupted hours she gets with Quinn. Not yet.

So, it’s easy to pretend she’s still too scared. Prison is scary.

But, it’s frustrating. She now understands clearly why so much sex happens all the time in this prison. It’s nearly driving her mad that she can’t get her own release, but her options are very few at this point. Quinn’s obviously off-limits (if Spencer wants to live out her life-sentence), Mack is a world of _no-thank-you_ , and Aphasia is, well, someone who sleeps atop her pet bugs. Or, slept. Past tense. Not that that makes it any better.

_Maybe someone traded her bugs for vodka?_

That’s a sentence Spencer’s never strung together before.

And, you know, she’s more than a little angry, too, that Quinn had no reservations about resuming her rampant sexual escapades with Mack the moment Shark Week ended. It stings like betrayal, and the last person who did _that_ took a mallet to the head. Not that she’s comparing the two, because “kissed me and then spanked a crazy bitch” is far lower on the scale of importance than “broke my heart and mind and caused me to go to the nuthouse for several weeks.”

But she’s still fucking frustrated.

On top of everything else, Spencer wakes on Wednesday with the familiar feeling of knowing she started in the night. She quickly shifts to check the mattress, but thankfully, the damage is still contained ( _barely_ , given the thin fabric down there). Spencer’s never been so grateful that the jumpsuits are black. She makes her way to the toilet and hunts around for any leftover peach wrappers, to no avail.

“Aphasia!” she whispers, crouched over on the silver bowl. Always being the first one awake has its advantages at times, but this is not one of them. She won’t be off this pot for a while without some help, and she can’t bear the thought of Mack laughing at her, or, worse, Quinn seeing her like this. _“Aphasia!”_

Nothing. Her cellmate's snoring away with a hand tucked under her mattress. “Fucking hell,” Spencer mutters, and launches the roll of toilet paper at the sleeping girl’s head, striking her shoulder with a soft _thud_ as it falls to the ground.

Instantly, Aphasia wakes and shoots upright, her withdrawn hand bringing a giant knife with it.

“WHOA, whoa!” Spencer hisses with flailing arms. “It’s just me! Holy shit.”

Aphasia blinks sleepily, sighs, and slips the knife back under her bed. “Did I miss waffles?”

“No, not yet. Hey, can I get one of those green tampons?”

Squinting and still half-asleep, Aphasia just stares at her for a moment, as if trying to make sense of her question. “Five dollars.”

Spencer furrows her brow. “Nobody has any money.”

Aphasia rears back, offended. “I got plenty of money!”

“Well, then I guess you don’t need mine!”

“Says who?” Aphasia sasses, looking more awake now.

“Will you please just give me a damn tampon?”

Clearly in no hurry, Aphasia reaches back under the mattress, and Spencer lets out a big sigh of relief. But then she sees Aphasia has just grabbed her knife again.

She points it at Spencer’s face, moving it with each word. “Five. Dollars.”

Gesturing to the sleeping spank twins, Spencer whispers, “You gave them some for free! Why don’t I get one!”

“That was Shark Week. E’rybody need one on Shark Week. This ain’t Shark Week.”

“Well, I’m bleeding _now_ ,” Spencer says.

Aphasia tilts her head as her knife hand drops. “What-chu mean? You broke your vajayjay?”

Spencer’s face falls into her hands. Explaining to her mother that she was rejected from UPenn was easier than this. She is never getting off this toilet. And now she has no toilet paper.

Without warning, something smacks her in the leg with a light _thwap_. Spencer opens her eyes and sees a green wrapper by her right foot. A single tampon has never looked so beautiful.

Quinn rolls over and buries her face in her pillow without a word, clearly irritated by the whole scene. Spencer gratefully snatches up the gift and sticks her tongue out at Aphasia, who huffs and mumbles, “Tryin’ to steal my shit,” before turning over and going back to sleep.

****************

By Sunday morning, the carousel of emotional turmoil is even worse than usual. Mack’s taking Quinn for a ride yet again, leaving Spencer forced to seek distraction from Aphasia. They’ve been getting along lately, even bonding over shared interests, such as chalk art drawings and strategies to ignore the furious moans several feet away. That’s proving difficult, though, with Mack being even louder than before and screaming Quinn’s name _a lot_. More than should be necessary, as far as Spencer’s concerned. She has to be doing it on purpose just to get under Spencer’s skin.

It’s working.

After at least a half hour of this, Spencer's so tense that she nearly snaps a piece of pink chalk in two.

Aphasia just pats her shoulder. “Girl, you got it bad,” she whispers while drawing what seems to be a cross between a rhinoceros and a giraffe.

Spencer rolls her eyes.

_YOU should talk._

She does _not_  “have it bad.” She does not have anything, good or bad or otherwise. Or, fine, fuck it, maybe she does. She’s clearly been obsessing about this for days. “Whatever,” she grumbles. “Not like I can do anything about it.”

“I thought that’s why you get shower time,” Aphasia says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and Spencer’s a colossal moron.

Mack’s final _“QUINN!”_ echoes all down the cell block, and now a few minutes alone in the shower is starting to sound like a _grand_ idea, if only so Spencer can be somewhere that is else.

“Boomer!” she yells as she jumps down off the bed, putting entirely too much effort into _not_ looking over at them.

It takes a minute, but then Boomer’s apathetic face appears before her. “Let me guess.”

“I’d like some office time today,” Spencer says, as firmly and politely as she can, “If that works with the warden’s schedule, of course. Please.”

“Whatever,” Boomer replies. “Now?”

The office hours go almost as slowly as being locked in the cell, but at least Mack isn’t thrusting between Quinn’s legs on Sue’s desk. Spencer’s so distracted by what a lesbian melodrama her life has become that she can’t even work up the energy to look for more clues, she just does what she’s supposed to do. And she spends so much effort thinking about _not_ thinking about Quinn that she may or may not have stuck S before R when alphabetizing. Whatever, paperwork is hard when you’re handcuffed.

Looks like her lawyer was right; Spencer apparently _does_ have some latent bi-curious feelings. _Fantastic._

Shaking off _that_ topic for later, she notices a crisp, green Missing Persons report for Aeryn Sun sitting on the desk.

_Wait, I thought she died in a prison fight? And Sylvester had what’s left of the body?_

Spencer scans the paper quickly, and it reveals a very different story: Missing prisoner, suspected escape, guards on high alert, highly confidential. And specific instructions to keep this internal until resolved.

_Well. THAT’S interesting._

She reads through it all again, since she can’t make a copy and doesn’t want to risk stealing it.

 _How can someone go missing for weeks at a time on a spaceship? A space_ prison _, no less?_

Spencer frantically searches the area for a second report, making more of a mess than she should, but then the door opens without warning.

It’s Boomer. Time to go.

_Shit._

Spencer pretends she was tidying a pile of papers, puts a final tap on the corners, and heads out of the office. She knows now that there’s more to this than she thought. There _is_ a conspiracy. There _is_ a mystery to be solved. And somewhere in that office are more clues. She just has to find them.

Should she tell the others about this? No, she decides. Fuck them. They’ve made it clear she’s on her own, at least until she has some proof in her hands. Her adrenaline is pumping with each step down the hall. Just like at home, the rush of good detective work is turning her on.

She’s so very, very glad it’s finally shower time.

Spencer’s still a little self-conscious as she stands under the showerhead with lukewarm water raining down on her. Running fingers through her hair, she double checks to be sure no one is around before she lets herself slide a hand down over her breasts, then abdomen. And, _god_ , her fingers are ghosting through curls and over incredibly sensitive skin, and it’s been far, far too long.

Spencer presses two fingers hard where she needs it most, and a shudder rips through her as her body responds immediately. She’s fought for days to think of anything but Quinn, but now, fuck it.

She works her hand back and forth, letting her mind wander to all those forbidden places. Quinn’s breath against her neck, Quinn’s tongue grazing across her ear, Quinn’s teeth tugging her bottom lip, Quinn’s hands...

_God, those fucking hands._

Spencer wants them everywhere. And a Hastings gets what she wants.

She plunges two fingers in without further preamble, hooking her thumb firmly to her clit, and the whimper that she’s fighting back echoes off the metal walls anyway.

And that fucking _voice_. She can almost hear Quinn, mocking her, teasing her.

_“Look how badly you want me, Spencer.” A little laugh. “You’re shaking.”_

And she is. She slaps her other hand against the wall and leans heavily against it for support, because her knees are about to give way at any moment and she’d really rather not have bruises from a fall.

She’s close. She’s _so_ close. After days of building tension and hearing first-hand what kind of sounds Quinn makes during sex, it’s definitely not going to take much more to put her over that edge.

 _“Beg me to touch you, Spencer. Say you want it. Say you want_ me. _”_

“I...” Spencer bites down on her shoulder to keep from screaming out. She’s breathing hard and her arm is killing her, but she works her thumb back and forth faster and faster. She can’t stop now. Not when she’s imagining Quinn hovering above her, slowly reaching a hand low into her jumpsuit with a devilish grin on that beautiful face.

And then the door swings open.

_FUCK._

_NO!_

_GODDAMNIT._

Spencer wants to die as she wrenches out her hand and tries desperately to look like she hasn’t just been furiously masturbating. If only the water were actually hot, she’d have an easy excuse for her flushed skin.

In walks Boomer, leading a small group of ladies -- of which she recognizes Lucy Diamond and Graham and Kat -- and Spencer’s sure they all fucking know _exactly_ what she was just doing. A few cough awkwardly and giggle, but Graham’s eyes size her up with a flirtatious smirk. The light swirls of blood at Spencer's feet only add to the picture she’s painted for them.

Spencer has never been more embarrassed in her life.

“Keep up the good work,” Graham says as she walks past. She misses grazing Spencer’s ass by an inch at most.

Spencer chokes down all that frustration -- even worse now that she’d started and couldn’t finish -- and snatches up her uniform to quickly dress and scurry to the door. “Okay,” she mutters to Boomer, extending her hands to be cuffed again.

“Already?” Boomer asks with a look of, _But they just got here?_  She shakes her head. “Whatever.”

Spencer steps back into the cell and throws herself down on her bed without a word. Killer spider or no killer spider, she just can’t take all these feelings anymore. Her nights with Quinn are over. They’ll go back to how things were before they started all that cuddle bullshit that only made it worse. No more touching. No kissing. No breaths against her ear. No warmth, no safety.

But hey -- maybe now Mack will stop looking about five seconds, tops, from strangling Spencer with that seat belt.


	20. Loco Lunes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

“¡Buenos dias!”

Spencer jerks awake to find Aphasia dangling half off the top bunk with the biggest, brightest grin. The first night back in her own bed had been uneventful until now; she’d even slept through most of it. She was overdue for something weird. “¿Qué coño?” she growls as she instinctively switches her already overloaded brain to foreign language mode.

“Mexican Monday,” Quinn says from across the cell.

A tray slides across the floor into view, holding small bowls of suspicious rice and what must be beans.

Spencer looks up to see Quinn smirk.

“Yeah, it’s not so bueno.”

Spencer stumbles over to examine the food close-up. If you can even call it food. It smells a lot like the toilet wine. Maybe the Pruno would pair nicely with this breakfast. “Why is this happening?”

Mack shrugs from her bunk. “Sylvester’s, like, 1/64th Mexican or something so we celebrate her ‘heritage’ once a year.”

Aphasia pulls castanets out from under her mattress and clacks away. “¡Arroz y frijoles!”

In about half a second, Mack flies off her bunk, heading right for Spencer, grabs a bowl of rice, and launches it at Aphasia. The bowl just barely misses her head and hits the wall, splattering rice all over her bed. “You know I fucking hate those pincher things!” Mack snarls, crawling back into her bed.

“She’s afraid of lobsters,” Quinn explains.

Aphasia doesn’t even flinch, just starts plucking up rice clumps with her castanets and dropping them into her mouth. “¡Desayuno en la cama!” she sing-songs.

Spencer surveys the scene and decides to skip breakfast today. “So, Quinn,” she says with a little too much enthusiasm. “What are we reading today?”

Quinn looks up from her current choice of romance novel and displays the cover. _Panqueques Amarillas Mortales y Escobas_ doesn’t sound like much of a panty-ruiner to Spencer, but what does she know. “I need to hit the library later,” Quinn says sheepishly.

It’s a quiet morning in the cell, aside from the dull, sporadic staccato of Aphasia still eating rice up above. But then that guard Spencer saw once before – K. Greggs – marches a prisoner past, and Spencer recognizes her this time.

It’s Hermione.

Aphasia was right. She’s back.

Hermione doesn’t look into the cell as she passes, and no one speaks to her. In fact, the whole cell block is quiet, which is unusual for delivery of newcomers. But then, this girl isn’t new. Spencer knows that now.

_I guess her escape plan isn’t as sound as she thought._

Once they’ve gone past, Spencer asks, “Hey, you okay?” Silence hangs over the room.

Aphasia is still picking rice off the bed and doesn’t meet Spencer’s eyes. She says quietly, “Hoy es un día feliz,” but she sure doesn’t seem to mean it.

Slinking back down to her mattress, Spencer realizes that if she wants to make it out of here alive herself, she has a lot of work to do. She’s miles behind Hermione.

She turns back to face her scribbled notes on the wall, and sighs. Yeah, Sue’s tangled up in lies about prisoner deaths, but how the hell is Spencer going to crack this case when she can’t roam freely to investigate? She still has no prime suspects, merely circumstantial reasoning, and a pathetic evidence list: one side of a phone conversation and the mental snapshot of a Missing Persons report.

There are no killer monsters in outer space.

_Or, hell, maybe there is no spider in the first place._

It’s been weeks since any sign of Charlotte, so maybe it was Spencer’s imagination after all. Space prison is fucked up, and she needed a coping mechanism. So, her subconscious created a manifestation of a familiar childhood character, building logic into a place that was inherently illogical and giving her a false sense of security. After befriending Quinn and establishing an actual interpersonal bond, her hallucinations ceased. Basically, her brain made it up to give herself an excuse to crawl into Quinn’s bed. A lust-driven fabrication of which Spencer should be deeply ashamed. And she is.

This realization is the first thing to make sense in a long time. And if she figured that out, then, damnit, she still has it. She can solve a murder mystery, even all by herself.

It’s what Spencer Hastings does.

Granting the premise that a warden has no reason to kill her own prisoners _(which, that should be easy, right?),_ Spencer tries to think beyond Sue’s role in whatever’s happening. There has to be more she’s not seeing. If, somehow, Sue’s innocent, it means someone else is guilty. Or, even if Sue’s the one calling the shots, it’s unlikely she’s killing girls with her own two hands. Looking back over the list of names on the left-hand side, all the ones she knows, Spencer thinks about the various levels of violence and psychosis, and one name still stands out.

Lucy Fabray.

There is just something off about that girl. She’s downright creepy with her whole goody-two-shoes act and pink jumpsuit. Why the fuck is _she_ in space prison anyway? And the goddamn Queen Bee, no less? It isn’t adding up. If she _is_ killing people, playing the sweet-as-pie kindergarten teacher would be a perfect cover. She’d be the last one accused.

Making her Spencer's new prime suspect.

Time for some recon. And maybe some vodka.

“Hey, you have Play-Doh today, right?” she asks Mack in the friendliest, most nonchalant voice she can muster, considering how much she fucking hates this girl.

But Mack isn’t buying anything Spencer's selling. “What do you care?”

Spencer chooses her words carefully. “I may have rushed to judgment before about Lucy.”

Quinn stops reading and raises an eyebrow.

“She seems like a nice person,” Spencer continues, trying to stay as sincere as possible. The truth is, Lucy is fucking terrifying.

“She’s phony, and I hate her,” Quinn says into her book.

Spencer takes a breath. “I was thinking I should give her another chance. Be more open-minded to people who might have a different way of doing things than I do. I like learning.”

Mack’s staring straight through her.

“Sooo...do you think I could tag along again? To class?” It’s really the only way Spencer can think of to get more information, short of accosting her in the Mess Hall. But she’s seen the scary brunettes Lucy runs with, and no thank you.

“Why would she even let you back in after you were a total dickbag?” Mack asks, and it’s a very fair point.

“I messed up, I know, and that’s why I want to go back. I want the chance to apologize. Sue said it’s okay. I asked her last week.” That’s an outright lie, but hopefully it doesn’t show.

Mack sighs heavily and lies back down on her bunk. “Whatever.”

There, one obstacle overcome. Now she has momentum and a plan. She has something to _do_ , thank you, Jesus.

Her mind goes back to the Mess Hall last week and Hermione Houdini, which still doesn’t make any sense. Where did she go? How does that even work?

...and can Hermione take other people with her?

Obviously, there are some kinks to work out, seeing as how Hermione's right back in here, but it’s the closest thing to an escape plan Spencer has at the moment.

Aphasia’s made it clear she doesn’t want to talk about Hermione, but Spencer is running out of options, and for all she knows, running out of time as well. She’s been relying pretty heavily on her cellmates to make progress on this case, and even then it’s slow-going. It’s too bad they don’t share the same interest in solving it. They might actually get somewhere.

Spencer wishes she could take a shot every time she desperately misses her friends from home.

“Hey,” Spencer says, pulling herself up so that her chin rests on Aphasia’s mattress. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She notices _HERMIONE_ is spelled out in white rice just inches from her face. Aphasia stares at it and remains silent.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Spencer says, climbing up to sit at the end of the bed. She’s careful not to mess up Aphasia’s masterpiece as she settles in. They sit quietly there together for a moment as Spencer decides how to proceed, but one thing is suddenly very clear. “Does she love you, too?”

It’s soft enough that it feels like a private moment, and thankfully their cellmates aren’t butting in. Mack’s on sit-up number fifty-eight and counting, and Quinn’s meditating on her bed. While smoking.

Aphasia sniffles once and keeps staring at the rice. “I don’t know.” It’s the softest, saddest whisper Spencer’s ever heard.

“It’s too bad you can’t be in a cell together.” She doesn’t want to think about how she’d feel if she and Quinn were separated, and that’s only just started. (Spencer’s promise to herself to stop having gay feelings was short-lived.) This thing with Hermione sounds like a lot more.

“We already got five people in here,” Aphasia says, then corrects herself. “Four. But I ain’t asking for a move. We don’t want Sue knowing she and I got a thing. She already got enough attention on her as it is.”

 _For instance_ , Spencer thinks, _an entire cafeteria applauding._   “What _was_ that? She just disappeared.” It still baffles her, hearing it out loud.

Aphasia takes a deep breath and straightens a few tilted rice grains in the _N_. “She’s a witch. She knows spells and shit.”

“Like Dark Willow?” Spencer asks. That hadn’t even occurred to her before, but it makes sense now.

_Does this mean Dark Willow can disappear, too?_

Aphasia makes a belittling _pssh_ sound and looks up. “She way better than that. With that wand, she can do anything.”

_A wand. THAT’S what that was._

Spencer starts piecing the puzzle together, how Hermione passed right by Aphasia before she disappeared.

“You gave it to her.”

Aphasia nods. “They always take it when she gets caught. She can do some things without it, she can escape, but not much else.” There is a quiet pause. “She needs it.”

Spencer tilts her head back in realization and says, “So, you get it for her. You steal it back.” That explains why Aphasia was gone from the cell the morning Hermione left. It doesn’t explain how the hell she did it, but Spencer’s not going to press her luck and lead the conversation off course.

Aphasia’s eyes are shining. “She needs it,” she repeats. “She’s fighting out there. There’s a war going on.”

Spencer raises her eyebrows, trying to picture this girl stationed in Afghanistan or something. With her little stick.

“You wouldn’t know about that,” Aphasia continues. “It ain’t on the news or whatever. It’s too scary. Too dangerous. People can’t understand.” A tear runs down Aphasia’s cheek and she blinks it away, only causing two more to fall. “She kills people, bad people. But she has to. They some fucked up bitches. It’s the government. They the ones who keep sending her back here. Because she’s too good. She's too strong. She doesn’t give up.” Aphasia smiles for a moment. “And she keeps getting right back out there.” She thinks about her words for a moment and adds, “She’s the bravest girl I ever met.”

Spencer exhales heavily, completely taken aback by the depth of this whole love subplot. “How long has this been going on?”

She sniffles again. “A year? Something like that. She been in and out of here so much, I lost count. They bring her in, I get the wand, she gets out, they bring her back. It’s just what we do.” Aphasia shrugs, but she’s clearly a mess inside.

“They can’t stop her from escaping?” Spencer says. “They obviously know she can get out of here. Don’t they have Solitary or something?”

“They don't even bother with that. She can get out of anywhere; that’s the magic. Except her school or something, but I don’t know much about that. She said there’s another prison that she wouldn’t be able to break out of either, but it’s full, so they send her here because it's so far away. When she disappears, she can only go so far, so she goes to other ships she knows about, and that’s why they keep catching her. Sometimes she can’t get all the way back home. Sometimes she does, and she’s gone for a long time.” Aphasia’s voice is quiet now.

“What if you went with her?” Spencer asks. “Maybe you could help her keep from getting caught.” It’s the closest way she can ask if Hermione would consider running her own Underground Space Railroad.

Her lip is trembling as she mumbles, “She’ll never take me with her. Not til it’s safe. Not til she knows she won’t be coming back in here. Who’d get her wand back?” She lets Spencer consider that before continuing. “They still don’t know it’s me.” Aphasia smiles proudly at this, then gets serious again. “They can never know. Never.” When she seems certain Spencer understands, she says, “She needs me here. So, I stay.”

Spencer is quiet for a moment, processing everything she’s heard. This whole situation is crazy. If Aphasia were ever caught, she’d be killed on the spot or at least transferred to a higher-security facility, Spencer’s sure of that. She can’t imagine where they must lock up this wand that Aphasia keeps stealing back, or how she manages it in the first place. But even overlooking these questions, how’s this all going to help Spencer? She doesn’t know if throwing herself into a supposed wizard war is worth the trouble of trying to get out of here. If a first escape didn’t work, she might never get another chance.

It’s just another dead end.

“Does she know how you feel about her?” she asks, putting her selfish plans to rest.

Aphasia looks Spencer in the eye and says, “She has to.” Staring at the letters one last time, Aphasia crumples the rice into a pile, throws the stale grains onto the floor, and curls up in a ball under her sheet.

Spencer climbs back down with a heavy heart. All this time, she’d thought Aria and Ezra’s story was pretty tragic, but this is on a whole new level. Further proof that she's a small-town girl who knows nothing about the real world. Nothing at all.

She tries to refocus on her plan to infiltrate Lucy Fabray’s world later that afternoon, steeling herself for the coming freak show. It seems everyone has a story here, and she’s intent on learning as many as she can.

****************

“Mexican Monday” doesn’t seem to be much of a celebration, Spencer thinks. The Mess Hall looks exactly the same as it always does when lunchtime rolls around -- gray and grimey with a sticky floor and more tables than a group this size warrants. Aphasia, however, must be over their conversation from earlier, because she’s beside herself with joy now. She excitedly places her order in Spanish as she pushes her tray through the line, despite the fact that there is only one item: fish tacos.

Or, well, wait.

Upon further inspection, it’s a single Gorton’s Fisherman fish stick wrapped in a corn tortilla.

“¡LUNES MEXICANO!” Aphasia turns to shout with both arms up, randomly in the middle of the line. The rest of the inmates don’t share her sentiments, except maybe Flaca and Maritza, and Spencer feels glad to be in the majority for once. Aphasia gets excited about the weirdest fucking things. _But it’s almost kind of precious_ , Spencer thinks.

She carries her tray past the end tables to the center section, where Quinn is waiting for her. Spencer hovers for just a moment before sitting, scoping out Lucy and her girls. They're leaning in slightly, like they don’t want anyone to hear what they’re discussing. Spencer squints and tries to read Santana's lips, but she’s too damn far away and--

“Hey,” Quinn says from across the table, snapping Spencer out of her daze. “Freak show.”

“Sorry.” She sits in a hurry, still looking in Lucy’s direction, then shakes it off and focuses on Quinn. “Thought I saw something.”

Quinn removes the fish stick from her tortilla, eating half of it in one bite and tossing the tortilla casually onto Aphasia’s tray without looking. “Your killer spider?”

“Ha, ha.”

She won’t admit it to Quinn, but a vanishing, literate spider sounds a lot less fucking scary than a saccharin, arts-and-craftsy WASP who rules over Angry Lesbian Space Prison. Holding up the fish stick, Spencer bangs it on the tray a few times just to confirm it’s in fact as rock-hard and inedible as she thinks. And it is.

“Who makes this stuff, anyway?” she asks. “This can't be the handiwork of an actual human.”

Immediately, everyone around Spencer starts hushing her, as if she’d just said “Beetlejuice” twice. Even Quinn looks scared.

“Jeez, sorry!” Spencer backpedals sarcastically. “What fine international cuisine.”

“Martha gonna cut you up,” Aphasia says, chomping another bite off her taco.

Spencer hasn’t heard that name yet in her time here. “Who’s Martha?”

“She runs the kitchen,” Quinn says. “Just stay out of her way.”

Spencer hasn’t seen anyone back there, but that doesn’t mean much. The food has to come from somewhere. She’s a little relieved to know it’s not just spit out of some space machine. But now she’s picturing someone out of a cartoon -- a giant, angry-looking woman with an apron and a hairnet and a permanent scowl. It seems fitting for a place like this. “So, what does M--”

Without warning, a loud _crack!_ brings the conversation to an abrupt halt, and the Mess Hall erupts into cheers yet again. Spencer hadn’t even seen that Hermione was there in the first place, but it’s irrelevant – she’s long gone now. Aphasia joins in the celebrating this time, but Spencer can see through the charade. She knows all about lying. Blending in is Aphasia’s best way to keep both herself and her true love safe. 

 _Wait a minute_...Spencer has been with Aphasia all day, other than shower time. Did she really manage to sneak away and get the wand back so soon?

Once again, Aphasia’s a lot smarter than Spencer gave her credit for. She wonders, nervously, if she’ll discover the same thing about Lucy Fabray.

She really hopes not.

 

****************

Lucy Fabray is furiously shaking a pair of maracas with a sombrero perched on her head, and Spencer just does not know what to do with this image. She lingers near the doorway for a second before cautiously stepping inside to retake her spot next to Mack. A banner near the head of the Mess Hall reads “¡La Fiesta Play-Doh de Lucy!” in garish pinks and oranges, with cacti clip-art adorning either end.

Spencer’s suddenly a little envious of Aeryn Sun; what happened to her must be preferable to this circle of Hell. She’s tempted to walk right out and never look back, to pretend Lucy Fabray really is just sweet as pie and could never be involved in possibly killing anyone ever. Spencer shakes her head -- and ignores the eye-roll that Mack shoots her way. A Hastings never gives up the chase, even if it leads into a dayglow hellscape.

“¡Hola, clase!” Lucy calls out over the mariachi music coming from her tape deck.

The class replies in unison, “¡Hola, maestra!” Mack is especially enthusiastic, though in Spencer’s humble opinion, her pronunciation is terrible.

You know, because she’s such an expert on these things.

Lucy continues shimmying around in time with the tinny music. “Are you excited for today’s _aventura internacional_ in the magical world of Play-Doh?”

“¡Si!”

Even Spencer joins in for that one, as much she wants to shrivel up and die just for being back here. She figures she has to blend in to avoid looking suspicious. Not that Lucy’s paying any attention to her right now.

_Or, wait...shit, here she comes._

“You’re back!” Lucy says with that perfect smile.

Spencer gapes and stammers. “Yeah, I...uh...”

Lucy taps her maracas together. “Fantastic! I brought an extra set of Play-Doh just in case!” She leans in close and whispers, “I’ll make an exception because of the holiday, but I’ll have to insist on a closed class after today. Be sure to tell Becky you want on the waiting list. Fair’s fair!” She winks once before backing away.

That’s a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Spencer’s deeply relieved to hear she’ll never again be allowed to set foot in Satan’s playground, and her cover wasn’t blown with Mack about the whole prior-permission-from-Sue thing. But it does mean she only has forty-five minutes to construct a profile of her prime suspect. _And_ she’ll be expected to participate this time, but Spencer’s nothing if not excellent at multi-tasking and deceit.

“Today, we’ll be exploring our deepest connections in life -- friends!” Lucy sets aside her maracas to pick up something that vaguely resembles a person’s face sculpted out of neon green clay.

Spencer chokes down the half-digested fish stick that had started to work its way back up. Placing this class after lunch really is poor planning on someone’s part.

“Everyone has someone special to them. Someone meaningful who helps us define who we are as individuals. This might be a person you haven’t seen in a while, or it could be someone you see every day. But, their place in our lives is undeniably important.” Lucy smiles at each person in her class. “Love, after all, is what makes us human.”

Everyone nods with rapt attention. Spencer sincerely hopes Lucy isn’t about to make the green face talk back.

Lucy plucks up a chunk of Play-Doh and starts twirling it between her hands. “We’ll start with your base, rolled into a ball like so...”

Spencer can’t help but fixate on the deft movement of Lucy’s fingers and how similar they are to Quinn’s. And how similar everything else is to Quinn, save the hair. And what it might feel like to cuddle up against _Lucy_ instead of Quinn, with those fingers wrapped around her own or raking gently through Spencer’s hair or reaching down into --

She blinks hard to clear out that mental image before it can really take root. Fluffiness aside, Lucy doesn’t seem like much of a cuddler anyway. And those well-manicured fingers might have killed someone.

_No sleeping with the enemy, Spencer._

She spends the next half hour immersed in the creation of a face that kind of resembles Toby, but with purple eyes and spiky green hair. Spencer picks him for her inspiration, as it were, because she doesn’t really want to associate any of her actual friends with this insanity. It’s bad enough that she’s even participating. If Hanna could see her now, she’d never hear the end of it.

Thirty-four minutes have passed, and Spencer still hasn’t learned anything new about Lucy Fabray. She spends the entire class walking the floor, instructing Dark Willow on how to correctly carve sad eyes and helping one of those scary brunettes from lunch with crafting the perfect ponytail.

At one point, Spencer overhears Lucy murmur to that same girl, “Santana, I know you’re having a rough time with this, but remember how _agile_ your fingers are.” And Spencer swears she can see a glint in Lucy’s eye that pierces her usual tranquility. Spencer files that away for future examination.

Time continues to drag on, and Spencer’s getting nowhere. Mack’s putting the finishing touches on her own contribution, which looks kind of like Mrs. Potato Head gone abstract. Spencer’s reduced to jabbing a finger into clay-Toby’s face out of sheer frustration, when Lucy claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Okay, _clase_ , you’ve all done a wonderful job!” she says. “The detail each of you has put into your sculpture is phenomenal! I’d give you all gold stars if I could!”

Spencer rolls her eyes. Gold stars, indeed.

Lucy rummages behind her, then turns around with her arms wrapped around a cardboard box. “And now, for our _gran final_...” She tips the box forward to reveal...tiny wooden mallets?

The flashback of pummeling the life out of Toby’s face catches Spencer by surprise. She glances down at the Play-Doh visage she made and furrows her brow.

“We’ve created with love,” Lucy’s saying, “and now we will express the anger each of us feels, because with love there is always pain. Some on the surface...” She gives Mack a smile. “And some, deep down.” Lucy balances the box on her hip and pulls out one of the mallets. “And we will do this like so...”

The hammer makes a sickening and kind of wet sound as Lucy practically pulverizes her own model with what must be her full strength.

_Oh. Well, then._

“Genius...” Mack whispers.

Spencer briefly wonders why _this_ wasn’t a Shark Week activity, but then figures putting even a toy weapon into the hands of crazy, emotional people is a recipe for disaster.

“Okay, _clase_!” Lucy says, panting ever so slightly and flicking a lock of blonde hair out from in front of her eyes. “It’s your turn now!”

It all comes back the instant Spencer’s hand closes around the mallet’s tiny handle. The betrayal, the attempt at puppy-dog eyes, the pleading...the blood, everywhere. She takes surprisingly great delight in pummeling clay-Toby, so much that Mack stares at her like she’s grown at least two more heads.

Spencer just shrugs at her. “I’ve done this before.”

Meanwhile, over the racket of a dozen hammers pounding against Play-Doh and tables, she hears crying from behind her, presumably from Dark Willow as she destroys the face of her own long-lost love.

At some point, the anger gives way to sexual frustration. If she can’t bang Quinn or even herself, at least she can bang this mallet. It’s a little fulfilling, and Spencer finds herself growing to almost respect Lucy Fabray and her teaching abilities.

Almost.

Cathartic as the activity is, it’s still not enough to sign up for Play-Doh fucking Funhouse officially. Spencer’s not about to sacrifice what’s left of her dignity _and_ sanity. While the forty-five minutes aren’t particularly fruitful, they’re not a total waste, either. Lucy’s still Suspect Numero Uno. There’s clearly more to her than puppy dogs and sunshine. Whether that’s good or bad, Spencer just doesn’t know.


	21. Web of Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

The rest of Loco Lunes, as Spencer is calling it, proceeds mostly without incident, other than a strange argument between Quinn and Aphasia over a blanket, of all things. Spencer didn’t even know Aphasia had one, much less that Quinn had access to it. They bicker back and forth for half of Power Hour because Quinn supposedly borrowed it during class time without Aphasia’s permission, even though she put it back before Aphasia even returned. Now, it's nowhere to be seen. This must be some special fucking blanket the way Aphasia’s carrying on and ripping Quinn a new one.

_Boo fucking hoo and shut the hell up! This should not be a thirty-minute conversation!_

If she wasn’t so bitter about missing out on cuddle time with Quinn, she might be glad for the distraction during the endless loop of “La Isla Bonita.” The goddamn bongo drums are going to haunt her sleep tonight. (Really, if she never hears another Madonna song ever again, it’ll be too soon.)

The Mess Hall serves _fajitas_ for dinner, which, tragically, seems to be the only Spanish word Aphasia has mispronounced all day. Spencer cringes every time she hears, “¡Me encanta fa-jitas!” with a hard J. But then, Aphasia is pretty fucking gay, so maybe it’s not a mistake after all.

The following afternoon, that blasted bongo song is still in her head, and Spencer needs a reprieve. She’s considering an hour of office work to try to dig up more information on the hammer-happy Lucy, but then she realizes it’s Tuesday -- the one day a week when she gets the cell to herself for fifty-five glorious minutes. This is new, as Mack just joined Aphasia in Zombies class to round out her schedule, maybe to avoid being alone with Spencer. Which, that’s fine -- Spencer didn’t want to be stuck in here with her any more than she did. They seem to have this unspoken agreement to just avoid each other as much as possible for, well, the rest of their lives.

Which it literally will be.

 _God_ , Spencer is going to waste away in this stupid, little room with a hoarding thief, a nymphomaniac lunatic who hates her, and the current object of her sexual frustration, who seems to be all but done with her before it ever really began.

And that may be the most aggravating part of all. Quinn’s so close by, and Spencer’s so fucking _close_ just thinking about Quinn, and yet, still, no release. After three weeks.

... _Holy shit, I have the cell to myself._

Nothing about prison is ever going to be prime circumstances, but Spencer's learning to be flexible. Boomer passes the cell every fifteen minutes, there’s a murderer on the loose, and maybe even a killer spider in her bed. But by god, Spencer Hastings is going to finally have an orgasm. A perfect way to celebrate the end of her cycle.

Tucked under the sheet, she casually pretends to read something from Quinn’s stash while waiting for the guard to pass, thus ensuring a maximum interval of uninterrupted time. As soon as Boomer’s out of sight, Spencer pulls down the long zipper and shoves a hand into her underwear. Turning her head toward the wall, she takes the hemmed edge of the sheet between her teeth to keep quiet as she works two fingers in circles. Her head is swimming with the flood of chemicals in her brain, and she starts naming them off just because she can, but then refocuses because, hi, why think about dopamine when you can think about Quinn’s tongue between your legs.

_Oh god, Quinn..._

And like that, Quinn is all over Spencer and everywhere. Pulling her hair, palming her breasts, kissing her neck, whispering dirty commands in her ear, grinding against her, sucking her clit -- doing _everything_ Spencer has wanted all at once, and it’s too much. Her arm pumps harder, body humming, sweat dripping down her thighs, and her back arches as she bites hard into the thin sheet.

Spencer feels herself building, rising, climbing, climbing higher, and then finally peaking. Her entire body clenches and shudders, closing in on itself reflexively. She moans hard with eyes shut tight as the sensations course through her, like some primal force within her that’s finally being released. The payoff is even better than she anticipated. Chalk it up to differences in atmospheric pressure in space, or the lapsed time, or the fact that she wants Quinn -- _a girl_ \-- more than she ever wanted Toby or any other stupid boy. Or, hell, maybe Martha did put drugs in the food. Spencer doesn’t know, and she sure doesn’t care, because she’s fucking floating and not coming down from this high any time soon. (Though, she does open her eyes for a half-second to be sure she’s not literally floating.) After sixty long, blissful seconds, the tingling in her toes and gentle hum across her skin send Spencer into a contented sleep.

****************

The slam of the cell door pulls her back to reality as she wakes behind closed eyelids. Her right hand is warm, still tucked snugly into her soaked underwear.

_“Jesus, Maple Tits. Didn't realize you were that bored.”_

It's Mack.

_Fuck._

Spencer rips her hand out and tries to zip her uniform back up, which is impossible to do discreetly under the sheet. She jumps off the bed like it was on fire, only making it more obvious that she has something to hide. “I wasn't --” she begins, but then she sees what her three cellmates are all staring at.

The back of the cell is covered with a haphazard jungle of yellow thread.

It's a web.

A web with writing in it.

And it’s _TERRIFYING._

“I need to pee,” Aphasia announces. There is no way to reach the toilet through the maze.

“Seriously, what the hell,” Mack says, but Spencer barely registers a word.

“I didn't do this,” she says forcefully. She's shaking and her mind is racing, praying that she's still dreaming.

The others may not yet realize what Spencer does -– the web says, **_I KILD JENE SHEKTR_**.

“Okay...” Quinn says, surveying it with raised eyebrows.

_Well, at least they see it this time. Yay?_

Spencer walks over to the web and reaches out to touch one of the lines of thread, just to be sure it's really there. With a tug, it pops off the wall, and Spencer jumps back. The work of the web itself is a strange combination of sloppy and precise. The letters aren't written across radial lines, like they usually are in Charlotte's webs on her bunk. Instead, it's mostly a net stretching in diagonals from one side of the cell to the other. It makes the letters much harder to read, but there's no doubt they're there.

“The spider did this,” Spencer says. “It had to be.”

“Yeah, okay,” Mack laughs.

“I was asleep!”

Quinn raises an eyebrow and glances down at Spencer’s crotch.

Spencer closes her eyes frustratedly. “Fine, I was doing...that...but then I was asleep. Either way -- _not_ Crazy String Girl.” She looks back at it and adds, “Also? I can spell. Give me a little credit.”

Aphasia tilts her head at the web. “Is this some kind of dream journal thing? My mom made me do that when I was little. It was stupid.”

 _“This_ is stupid,” says Mack, lying down on her bed.

“Hey,” says a voice from the corridor, and all heads turn. It’s Raven. “What the hell is that?”

Aphasia crosses past Spencer, saying, “Pssh, horny girls do crazy shit, you know how it goes.” Reaching into her jumpsuit, she pulls out something small and gray, slipping it through the bars. With her other hand, she takes a sealed tin can from Raven. It’s a quick exchange, one they’ve clearly made before.

“Yeah,” Raven says. She takes a moment to examine her new item, flipping it open, and Spencer immediately recognizes it as an old-style cell phone.

_Aphasia had a phone in here?_

Raven closes it, looking satisfied, and puts it in her pocket. “Let me know when she’s able to track down that belt.”

“She knows,” Aphasia says. “I got you.”

Spencer has no idea what’s happening. It’s somehow even more confusing than the giant yellow web still hanging behind them. 

Raven nods back at the mess before walking away. “And clean that up.”

 _“You_ clean it up,” Mack snaps back after she’s gone.

Spencer sighs and crosses her arms, staring at the string message and trying to make sense of it. It feels like someone’s punking her. Well, hopefully they’re having a good laugh right now, because Spencer sure isn’t.

Quinn doesn't look very amused by it, either. “You really don't have to do stuff like this to try to get us to believe you, you know. It's...not helping.” She looks back at the message, then adds, “And it's kind of creepy.”

“They just had knotting class,” Aphasia says and climbs up to her bunk. “Go be crazy there.”

“It's knitting,” Quinn says.

“I don’t know,” Aphasia says, eyebrows high. “Santana into all kinds of freaky shit.”

Quinn ignores that and says to Spencer, “It’s not too late to sign up. You clearly have…an interest.”

Spencer's mouth falls open. They still don’t believe her.

“I DIDN'T DO THIS!” she shouts, sounding as desperate as she feels now. And then something snaps in her, and she flies into a fit of rage, tearing down all the thread and ripping apart what she can into pieces. It's tough to break, and it hurts her fingers the tighter she pulls. With one final cry, Spencer eventually gives up and collapses to the floor, tears streaming.

Yes, that will _certainly_ make her appear sane and attractive again.

Her cellmates don't seem to know what to do or say. Then, Aphasia jumps down and bypasses Spencer entirely, going right to the toilet. Once her business is underway, Aphasia rolls her eyes at Spencer, muttering, _“Mommy issues.”_

Spencer shoots a look right back, but Quinn’s voice cuts in before she can say anything. 

“Come on.” Quinn gestures for Spencer to come up on the bunk.

_No. Fuck you._

Spencer drags herself back to her bed instead and quietly cries into her pillow. She's terrified and exhausted and alone, and now Charlotte’s back and fucking with her on a whole new level. _Why_ , Spencer doesn’t know, and she’s too angry to think about it rationally right now, anyway. Maybe it was stupid of her to believe a spider could genuinely care about her. Maybe this is what Charlotte wanted all along -- for Spencer to lose her mind. Maybe crazy people make easier targets. There certainly doesn’t seem to be any lack of crazy in here, Spencer just didn’t think she’d be at the top of the list.

But it seems the more she fights, the worse it's getting. She’s so powerless here that even a spider has control over her world. Spencer has no credibility, no allies. Even the proof, right here, only makes it worse. She got what she wanted – a clear, solid confession to murder – and it only took her another step backward. And now she has no sanity left, either. She's become The Girl Who Cried Spider.

It’s the middle of the day but Spencer manages to cry herself to sleep again, if only to bring an end to this nightmare. Maybe Charlotte will end her suffering peacefully in her slumber. At this point, Spencer would rather not wake up at all than live another day in this dumpster.

Falling further into darkness, the last thing Spencer hears is Aphasia muttering, “Bitch stole my towel.”

****************

Spencer wakes when Power Hour comes blasting over the speakers. Not that that helps her know what time it is; she’s learned that Sue turns on the music any time she damn well pleases. But her body tells her it's been a few hours' nap, and the memory of the afternoon’s events come flooding back in a depressing wave. She’s more relaxed, though, if just groggy from sleeping too long. She rolls over, praying there’s not another message waiting for her. Squinting against the light from the corridor, her eyes adjust to take in the scene. Aphasia's dancing to “Holiday” in the middle of the room while Mack does make-shift pulls-ups on the bed frame and Quinn reads. The small pile of yellow thread is right where Spencer left it, a few feet away in the back right corner.

She turns away, still massively skeeved out by its very presence. No, Spencer's not going to let her guard down ag--

Her face pales and her blood runs cold when she sees it.

Another spider web. This one, regular silk thread, and attached to the bed frame just over her feet.

**_THE SUN WENT DOWN_ **

In a flash, Spencer tears the web apart with her hands, much more easily this time. Her scream is mostly drowned out by Madonna's backbeat, but she can still feel her cellmates' eyes on her. Spencer's not going to waste her time with them anymore. She's had more than enough of this bullshit.

“GUARD! BOOMER! SOMEBODY!” she shouts, running off the bed to bang on the cell bars. “HEY! I NEED HELP HERE.”

“Hey. Spencer,” Quinn prompts, but Spencer ignores her. Quinn had her chance.

Boomer’s not running, but she’s meandering at a somewhat faster pace than normal. She keeps a safe distance and takes a quick look around the cell to see that the screaming lunatic is, in fact, not at all threatened by anything.

“What.”

“There is a KILLER SPIDER in here.” Spencer knows how crazy it sounds, but there’s no room for doubt or weakness now. She just has to go with it. “Let me out RIGHT NOW, or I swear to god, I will be eaten alive and it will be on YOU.”

Boomer looks thoroughly bored and just walks away.

“Hey! HEY! WHAT THE FUCK? Where are you going?!”

The guard is halfway down the corridor by now and isn’t slowing down.

“She killed Aeryn Sun! I SAW IT. I am NOT CRAZY.”

With a pause in her step, Boomer pivots and sighs. She paces back slower than anyone rightfully should, making Spencer shift her weight anxiously, and stops ten feet from the cell. “You have information about Aeryn Sun?”

“YES,” Spencer pants, ignoring the fact that the only information she has was all obtained without permission. “Take me to Sylvester! I want to talk to the warden! NOW, goddamnit!”

Boomer stares and considers her options. “Calm the fuck down for an hour, and I’ll think about it.”

“IN AN HOUR, I COULD BE DEAD.”

“Don’t we wish,” Boomer replies loudly, already walking away again.

Spencer turns and slides down the bars to sit on the floor. No way is she going back to her bunk now. She watches Aphasia dance, letting her mind get lost in the hypnotic movements. “Holiday” is immediately followed by “Live to Tell,” and Spencer knows the prison is mocking her now. She drowns in the simple keyboard notes and fades out, gripping the words like a lifeline.

_Will I live to tell the secret I have learned?_

Other songs come and go, but Spencer doesn't hear them.

By the time Power Hour ends, Quinn's decided to try again, climbing down to sit next to Spencer, shoulder to shoulder.

“Talk to me?” Quinn asks, her expression almost approaching concerned.

Spencer keeps staring forward, even though there's nothing to look at anymore. “Charlotte,” is the only word she can utter in response.

Mack snarls, “Who the fuck is Charlotte? Is she hot?”


	22. The Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer barely sleeps at all that night, too paranoid of every little itch and sensation that could be spider legs against her skin. She knows now that she’s not crazy. She didn’t make this up – any of it – and she’s not going to let that eight-legged bitch get away with murder anymore. Not on Spencer’s watch.

She’s half-conscious when the jarring sound of banging on the cell bars yanks her awake. Spencer jolts upright, hitting the frame yet again. On the bright side, there isn’t a new web. Maybe the killer is on the run.

Boomer's voice cuts through the fresh headache. “Hastings! Let’s move.”

 _Thank you, yes please, get me out of here_.

As they walk, Spencer can tell it’s first thing in the morning, judging from the dim lights and few early risers in various cells they pass. She tries not to get her hopes up, but she can't help but feel optimistic. Maybe Boomer told Sylvester about Charlotte first thing when she came into work today and they decided it was an emergency. Maybe she’ll hire an exterminator. Maybe she’ll grant Spencer a reward, like a reduced sentence or even a transfer back to Earth. She’d miss Quinn, but at least she wouldn’t have to put up with Mack anymore. And hey, with this newfound attraction to ladies, she could go back to Rosewood and have Emily introduce her to some of the five thousand lesbians wandering the general vicinity. If she hurries, she might make it back before A kills them all.

Sue is sitting at her desk, hands folded, awaiting Spencer’s arrival. “Morning. I hear you’re having some issues of the eight-legged variety,” she says. “Is this some weird Millennial euphemism for cramps I just haven't heard yet?”

At the confused look on Spencer’s face, Sue dismisses the idea and continues. “Didn't think so. I gotta say I’m surprised. I’ve been up here for a whole decade -- since I was a nubile eighteen years old, just like yourself -- and I’ve yet to see or hear of a spider in space. Congratulations.”

Spencer squares her shoulders and prepares to lay out all her evidence, or at least what she dares to reveal. It’s all hearsay, some quite literally. Her confidence is going to have to sell this thing.

“Miss Sylvester, I have reason to believe that the culprit behind the disappearances of Stacey Merkin, Aeryn Sun, Jenny Schecter, and maybe Alex Vause,” she takes a deep breath, “is a dangerous, space-dwelling arachnid.”

Okay, it _does_ sound ridiculous when said so matter-of-factly, but it’s fucking true. Spencer _knows_ it’s true, even as she watches Sue struggle to not laugh in her face.

“Really?” Sue fixes Spencer in place with an arched eyebrow. “Who says they’ve disappeared?” she asks innocently.

“Um.” Spencer’s mind races. She can't just say, _I overheard you on the phone telling the President they were getting stabbed._ Time is ticking. “The other girls said they were here and now they’re not.”

“Well, I'll be damned. You're right -- they must be dead!” Sue throws up her arms.

Spencer is feeling stupider by the moment. “Were they released?”

“Frankly, that’s none of your business, Nosy Nancy. That's my business. If there _were_ a killer spider on my ship, wouldn’t I know about it?” Sue stands up and begins pacing the room. “Do you think I’m that terrible at my job that I’d let some creepy-crawly stalk my inmates right under my nose?”

Spencer stammers. “I-I didn’t mean --”

“No, of course you didn’t. That wouldn’t be lady-like now, would it?” Sue looks longingly at her trophies as she continues pacing. “I know your type, Wastings. Whip-smart and convinced you can solve any puzzle with grit and a little deductive reasoning. But you know what your problem is? You’re lazy. You jump right to conclusions without bothering to gather any real facts. Yes, four inmates were here and now aren’t anymore. Not that you knew them or have any reason to give two rats' rears about their livelihoods. You’re new to the prison system, so let me explain something to you: Inmates get transferred. Inmates get released. Inmates get paroled. Inmates get sent to Solitary. Inmates get stabbed to death by other inmates. Sometimes, inmates get sucked out the airlock simply because I can’t stand the sight of their pasty, simpering, mouse faces anymore.”

Spencer’s heart stops for a moment. _Is she talking about Jenny?_

“But what inmates _don’t_ do,” Sue says pointedly, “is get detailed reports on the daily whereabouts of others. You forgot you stopped being a person with rights the moment you were convicted. You lost all control of your life, and now you’re trying to regain some control here. I get it.”

Spencer really doesn’t want all of this to be so logical because then she can’t disagree with it as easily. She wants the murdering warden to be wrong.

Sue continues, “You found yourself something to do. Something to spin the old hamster wheel inside your noggin. Most girls would barter for a Sudoku book. But instead, you decided to invent a killer spider in outer space -- one that can dispose of several entire human bodies, no less. It’d be impressive if it wasn’t so juvenile, and frankly, more than a little bit sad. That’s quite an imagination you’ve got there, and I say that as the person who inspired Lady Gaga’s meat dress over a rousing chat on AOL instant messenger in 2004. Before you ask --” She holds up a compact disc with an America Online graphic “-- yes, I have the World Wide Web. _Forty whole hours_ of it!” She puts the CD back in her disk drive and folds her hands, as if to say, _Your move_.

“Um --” Spencer starts, but Sue cuts her off again.

“I had high hopes for you, Spinster. I thought, ‘Here’s a girl who’s going to rise to the top of every class, a girl who’s going to get involved! Someone who’ll read every book in our library and not let her brain just rot away in her thick, oddly shaped skull.’ But I guess I was wrong about you, Pastings. I don’t like being wrong. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a winner,” Sue says, referencing her trophy case. “And _you_ are very quickly going the way of LOSER. You need to get your head out of your ass and start tuning into your new reality.” She cups her hands around her mouth to magnify the sound. “NEWS FLASH: YOU ARE IN PRISON. This spider malarkey ends here and now.”

“Miss Sylvester, I _swear --_ ,”

“Don’t swear in my office,” Sue says condescendingly. “It’s tacky.” She pauses and looks Spencer up and down, crinkling her face a bit. “I'm starting to think maybe this flight of fancy was the result of raging hormones. I can smell the stench of your roaring, crimson river from here.”

Spencer gawks and blasts back, _“Excuse me?!_ I don’t think you can talk to me that way. And I’m not even on my period anymore,” she adds irrelevantly.

“I’ll speak to you however I damn well please. Don’t forget whose ship you’re sailing on, young lady. You come into my house with all this loose talk, and you think I’m just going to let it slide without some fact checking?”

She’s had about enough of this crap. “I’m not lying!”

“Lying? No, you’re not lying. I think you believe this fabricated web you’ve spun -- pun very much intended. Oh yes, I can see it in your Pruno-soaked eyes. What you are is What you are is Stone. Cold. Crazy.”

Spencer feels her heart drop into her stomach. “I’m not--”

“I don’t mind a little crazy on my ship,” Sue interrupts again, “as I'm sure you’ve discovered in your extra-curricular super sleuthing. But what’d you expect -- it’s prison! Bad fish and craziness come with the territory. It keeps my guards busy and keeps me feeling saner every day in comparison. I just need to know what kind of crazy I’m dealing with. Like that girl who flays the skin off her chicken at dinner -- I just love that. Or the two Connor women who say they’re not only the exact same person, but that an indestructible robot from the future is trying to kill them! Hilarious!”

“I just --” Spencer tries, pointlessly.

“But you, with the _arachnophobi-uh-oh_ , I don’t quite know what to do with you yet. Fortunately, ‘entertaining the crazies’ isn’t in my job description. I have someone else for that. Let's get that giant head of yours shrunk a bit, as they say.” Her eyes narrow as she looks closely at Spencer's hair. “It does seem a bit swollen.” Sue taps at her computer’s touchscreen while she continues. “But not to worry. Dr. Umbridge finds headcases like you absolutely _delicious_.”

_Dr. Umbridge?_

“But first, another physical. Can’t have you infecting my whole ship with whatever new space dementia you’ve possibly contracted.”

_Wait, a doctor visit AND a therapist?_

“And don’t come back with any more of this spider hooey-hooey, or we’ll have to consider more...extreme measures.”

Spencer’s eyes widen, terrified to think what that must mean. Is the warden threatening her? Over a spider?

Sue doesn't even look up from her paperwork as she says, definitively, “Please get the hell out of my office.”

Boomer drags Spencer down the hall to the familiar, gray room, chains the handcuffs down, and waits outside while Spencer tries to change into the paper gown on the examination table. Even though nothing has to go over her head, it’s still quite hard to manage with her hands tied. She’s placing her 50/50 wager on which of the doctors she’ll see today when a blonde woman enters. A woman Spencer has never seen before. And of course, she’s wearing a white coat with “Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins” stitched on it.

“Who are _you_?”

“Hi Spencer,” the doctor says, extending her hand toward Spencer’s cuffed ones. “I’m Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins. I’ll be doing your ex--”

Spencer pulls away from the handshake. “No, you’re not.”

A pause. “I’m not?”

Spencer’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “Every single person I meet in this room tells me she’s Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins! Nobody’s showing me any ID or credentials, so what am I supposed to believe? What the hell are you people doing to my body? Who _are_ you? What kind of tests are you running? What are you writing in--”

“Hey, hey, Spencer.” The doctor holds up a hand and is surprisingly successful at calming Spencer down with her soothing tone. “I know this must be confusing for you. You’re not crazy -- there _are_ three of us. But don’t worry, just three.” A small smile. “My wives and I rotate days so we don’t get exhausted. Tired doctors make mistakes.”

... _Wives?_

“...Wives?”

“Yes, wives. Two of them and me makes three.” At Spencer’s look, she continues. “We hyphenated our names when we got married; it’s not exactly rocket science.” With a smirk, Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins goes back to looking over Spencer’s file. “I haven’t seen anything from your previous tests or exam notes that raises a red flag, but it won’t hurt to run them one more time, just to be sure. That’s a nice perk of the arrangement -- we can always get second and third opinions. Hold out your arm.”

Spencer’s built up enough trust with the previous doctors to let her mind wander during the routine of pokes and lights and scopes. She’s never met two married women before, much less three. Was that even legal in the United States? Maybe that’s why they came to space in the first place. Spencer wonders what other _arrangements_ people have out here, beyond the iron fist of Earth laws.

And then, just for a moment, she considers what it would be like having her own wife, or two. Quinn and...maybe someone who looks just like Quinn. Oh lord, what fucking insanity _that_ would be. Her heart starts beating rapidly at the thought, and the muscles between her legs clench.

_God, think of the wedding night, what with the--_

“You okay?”

The doctor’s voice brings Spencer back, and she pulls away from the cold of the stethoscope that’s only just now registering.

“Yeah,” she shakes her head, “just...thinking about something scary again. Someone’s killing the prisoners up here. You know that, right?”

“Well, I certainly hope not. Makes it much harder to do my job when the patients are already dead.” Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins listens to Spencer’s chest for another moment, then sighs and consults the file again. “Spencer, I really don’t see any physical explanation for the hallucinations you’ve been experiencing. I'm sorry, I’m afraid this is beyond my realm of expertise. Hopefully Dr. Umbridge will be able to help you more than I can.”

“You married to her, too?” It’s drier than it should be, considering Spencer kind of likes this doctor, maybe even more than the other two.

“My dance card’s full,” the doctor says. “Go ahead and get changed; I’ll see if she’s available.” She takes a step and then pauses to add, “For counseling, not marriage.”

Spencer purses her lips and nods. “Thanks.” As soon as the doctor’s out the door, she hops up and starts rummaging through the three drawers under the counter within her limited reach. They’re stocked with typical first-aid materials -- gauze, band-aids, alcohol wipes -- but then Spencer finds what she’s looking for.

She shoves a handful of tampons into her underwear, the only place she can hold anything, before changing back into her jumpsuit. Better to be prepared next time, she thinks, since Aphasia’s not willing to assist. While she’s still alone, Spencer practices moving slowly to minimize the crinkling noise, but there's no way around it. She’ll have to talk over it somehow. Chances are, Dr. Umbridge will notice the bulge and think Spencer’s just _really_ happy to meet her.


	23. I Must Not Tell Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Boomer opens the door after a minute, not even knocking first to see if Spencer’s done changing. She looks as disinterested in life as ever. Prison work must be so very fulfilling.

They continue down the hall as it curves to the left, further than Spencer’s been in this direction. Then, on the right, she sees a wooden door. It’s quite noticeable, as it’s the only fixture not made of metal on the entire ship. The golden placard is much shinier than Sue’s, and it reads, “DR. DOLORES UMBRIDGE, SPACE PSYCHIATRIST.”

Spencer isn’t sure if she’s supposed to just go in or knock or what, but fortunately Boomer takes the initiative and opens the door without hesitation. She pushes Spencer into a room that might as well be an alternate dimension.

It’s like a Hallmark card, a florist, and a pet store all mated and vomited their various charms on every inch of the place. The walls are covered in pink and white floral wallpaper, plastered over by what must be a hundred pictures of kittens. Kittens on plates, kittens in frames, kittens on parade, you name it.

To Spencer’s left is a fireplace with an actual burning fire and white lace doilies draped across the mantel. A rocking chair with a very-old-but-hopefully-still-living cat is to her right. And in front of her, a giant wooden desk -- mahogany, to match the door -- with a bizarre-looking older woman in the tall, purple plush chair behind it. She’s dressed in a fuzzy, buttoned sweater like someone’s great-grandmother on her way to the retirement home knitting party. In 1953.

Just when Spencer thought this place couldn’t get any weirder.

 _Oh, wait_ \-- There’s a framed photograph in the same place on the wall as in Sue’s office. It’s Umbridge with what looks like some high ranking, older gentleman in a robe. Spencer can barely make out the gold cursive from her seat, and is frightened to see that it _also_ says, _“I love getting physical with you!”_ signed, “The Minister.”

_Oh my god, she’s banging a priest._

“Miss Hastings,” Dr. Umbridge says in a soft British accent. “Please do have a seat.” She gestures to a pink velvet chair that blends in frighteningly well with the wallpaper.

“Hi,” is the only thing Spencer can manage to say, so she coughs as she sits to hide the sound of crinkling wrappers against her skin. This place made Lucy’s Play-Doh Hellhole look like Alcatraz. What is a room like this doing in a prison? In space?!

“My name is Dr. Umbridge, and I’m the ship’s psychiatrist. My job is to help our residents come to terms with the things that are troubling them and seek out the truth. I have helped countless women just like yourself overcome the burdens of the soul and the tortuous afflictions of the mind.” She pauses as if waiting for Spencer to say something, or possibly throw herself at the doctor’s feet to thank her for coming to her rescue.

Spencer just stares at her.

“So, Spencer, tell me what brings you here today. Girl trouble? Anger management? Sex addiction? Your parents never loved you?”

_...Excuse me?_

The chance that this walking, talking tea cozy would believe what Spencer knows to be the truth is pretty fucking slim, but hey, stranger things have happened here. (Theoretically. She just can't think of any right now.)

“I think someone is kidnapping and killing the inmates,” Spencer says. Her voice is low and matter-of-fact, as she has no time for bullshit.

The doctor, to her credit, sounds genuinely intrigued in her Golden Girl kind of way. “Really? And who might be doing such a thing?”

Here goes nothing.

“A spider.”

Dr. Umbridge blinks. “A what?”

“A spider. It’s written messages in its web on my bunk with clues. Things like ‘Fuck Stacey Merkin’ and ‘The Sun Went Down,’ which has to be about Aeryn Sun.”

Dr. Umbridge flinches at the profanity but quickly recovers. “Does it, now? And who else has seen these webs? The guards, surely? Miss Sylvester? How is the investigation going?”

“There _is_ no investigation, because nobody believes me. My cellmates even saw the yellow string web in my cell, but they think I did it – and I _didn't.”_   She finds that holding up her arms for emphasis is far less effective when she’s handcuffed. “So, I end up looking crazy when I’m the only person who really knows what’s going on.” 

“I see...” Dr. Umbridge makes a few notes on a pink legal pad with kitten pawprints in the corner. “And how do you presume this spider is going about these kidnappings and murders? It seems like quite the arduous task for one little bug.” She gives a look as if to say, _I bet you hadn’t thought of THAT, hmmm?_

Maybe this woman isn’t going to be on her side after all.

“It’s not a bug. It’s an arachnid,” Spencer says, annoyed. After weeks around Mack's incompetence, Spencer's been itching to correct someone. She just can’t help herself. Shaking it off, she takes another breath before continuing. “And I honestly don’t know how she’s doing it. I just know that she _is_.”

“She?” the doctor asks, curiously.

“...Yeah. I call her Charlotte.”

“Ah.” More notes on the legal pad.

_Great._

“Look, can you just tell me if those four people were transferred out or something? Jenny Schecter, Alex Vause, Aeryn Sun, and Stacey Merkin. Do you know if they’re even alive?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss confidential prisoner information, Spencer.” But she doesn’t look even the least bit sorry. “Have you spoken to the warden about this? Has she shared any details with you?”

“Oh yeah, we had a big girl-talk and dished the deets over mimosas and a pedicure. That’s why I’m here with _you_.” Spencer glares pointedly. “I’m not crazy. Something IS happening here. If someone would just _help me_ , we could stop it.”

“Ah, yes, you do enjoy working in teams, don’t you? I’ve read that in your file. You had such a lovely little A-group back home.” Dr. Umbridge looks very pleased with herself.

“I wasn’t on the A Team!” Spencer shouts, louder than she means to. “I was the only person willing to step up and stop them from continuing to ruin our lives!”

She doesn’t want to be talking about Toby. She doesn’t want to be _thinking_ about Toby. This isn’t fucking even _about_ Toby at all. Why does no one care about the people who are still alive here?

“Now, now, we can’t always just go snuffing out our problems with croquet mallets, can we?” There’s that condescending look again.

And here comes the complementary snark. “I don’t know -- I feel it might do a wonder on this fucking spider that’s KILLING PEOPLE.”

Dr. Umbridge gives a little _hem, hem_ cough and says, “You will not use that language in this office. It is inappropriate.”

This lady and Mistress Berry would get along fantastically.

Scrubbing that mental image from her mind, Spencer’s on her feet in a second. “Are you going to help me or not?” She already knows the answer, and she hates rejection so much. “That’s your job, right? To help me? Then DO IT.”

But this doctor isn’t the least bit intimidated by Spencer, it seems. She merely folds her hands and changes the subject. “Tell me about your daily life here. How would you categorize your relationships with your cellmates?”

“How is that supposed to help?”

“I hear things, you know,” Dr. Umbridge says with a knowing grin. “The Wednesday happenings of cell 10 are legend in these halls.”

Spencer’s eyebrows shoot up. “What, the spanking?”

“Quinn and Mack seem to have developed a mutually beneficial relationship during their time here, wouldn’t you agree?”

There must be some kind of sharp implement nearby with which Spencer can impale this frog-woman. She’s romanticizing an ass-bruising, of all things? Spencer doesn’t want to think about Mack right now any more than she wants to think about Toby. If Mack likes getting hit in the ass so much, maybe Spencer could pummel her with a croquet mallet. That could be quite satisfying. You know, if she had a croquet mallet.

And since when are Quinn and _Mack_ a respected item around here? Apparently, they’re so together that even the prison staff knows about it.

_This? Is bullshit._

“I think if you were to participate in these kinds of events,” Dr. Umbridge continues, “you might feel more included with your peer group. Maybe then you wouldn’t feel the need to make up these hare-brained stories of killer spiders just to get attention.”

“I don’t want Quinn to spank me!” But wait, that wasn’t the main point. She shakes her head to restart. “It’s not a fucking story! It’s a SPIDER.”

Another cough. _Hem, hem._

 _Whatever_.

“You really shouldn’t tell lies, Spencer. It’s quite distasteful.”

“IT’S. NOT. A. LIE.”

“We both know you _desperately_ want Quinn to spank you.”

_...Wait, what?!_

“From all reports, she has made herself very available to you, and you pull away, time and time again. If you’re going to continue to reject her advances, I think it might be time for a new approach.”

The doctor waits before pressing on, but Spencer’s not about to interrupt. She’s curious to see what crazy-train station this little speech is pulling into.

“Perhaps what you need in order to build your confidence and overcome these depression-based hallucinations is a change of environment.”

That gets her attention. “You’re moving me?”

“I see now that you’ve been placed with girls you find incompatible. _Tsk tsk_. This happens on occasion. I’m only too glad I can help sort it out! You, Spencer, need to be with girls who will push you to become a stronger, more active participant here, to feel more included.”

_No, no, no, this is all wrong!_

“But I want to stay with Quinn!” Spencer pleads. She isn’t about to lose her only shred of sanity, the only person in this shithouse that makes her feel human and important. Hell, the only person in here who makes her feel anything at all besides rage.

“She’s my _friend_. I’ve been included! We cuddle, for crying out loud! Just because I don’t let her beat the crap out of me doesn’t mean...”

But Spencer doesn’t know how to even end that sentence.

“I’m afraid I just don’t see it, dear,” Dr. Umbridge tuts. “No, surely there must be a better fit. Girls you can relate to, talk to, play with, get involved with.”

Spencer’s just shy of either breaking into tears or shouting, _“But I just masturbated six hours ago thinking about Quinn FUCKING ME SENSELESS. I’M INVOLVED, OKAY.”_

Instead, she clenches her jaw in a moment of clarity and says, as calmly as she can, “You don’t want to help me at all, do you?”

Dr. Umbridge pauses and looks almost offended through her smile. “Nonsense, dear! I live to serve. This is for the best, you’ll see.”

She searches for a prisoner transfer form in her desk, quickly fills it out, and stamps it with a pink flower print, **APPROVED**.

Spencer runs a few calculations in her head to determine whether or not her whole body could fit inside the small fireplace. It can’t.

She’ll just wait for the tuna casserole to finish her off on Friday.


	24. Moving Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Except for the raging cramps tearing her insides apart, Spencer's body feels numb. The twists and turns back to the cell block are one gray blur.

_What just happened in there?_

She replays the conversation, everything starting with Sue and the third doctor, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. But nothing adds up, it _never_ does in this fucking place, and suddenly she’s being shoved back into cell 10 with a _“Make it fast”_ from the guard.

 _Oh, right_ \-- She asked Umbridge if she could at least drop by the cell one last time.

Quinn’s reading lesbian erotica in her bunk, Mack’s stirring in the toilet again, and Aphasia’s pumping a Thighmaster while quietly singing something Spencer vaguely recognizes as Backstreet Boys, but with the wrong lyrics. It’s just another typical evening in space prison.

A sort of wistfulness comes over Spencer. She thought she was going to wither away for years in this stupid room with these terrible, wonderful people. She and Quinn are just getting started in...well, whatever it is.

Was.

Standing in the doorway as awkwardly as on her very first day, Spencer doesn’t know quite what to say or do. She’s stalling for time, she supposes. It’s not like she has things to pack up, just her contraband toothbrush. And her cellmates have no idea she’s there to say goodbye. Spencer wonders if they’ll even care.

The startling slam of the door behind her breaks the silence. Aphasia peers down at Spencer through her spread thighs. “Who that?”’

Kneeling in front of their chrome throne, Mack looks up and says loudly, “Hope you don’t have to go.”

But Spencer _does_ have to leave, and it’s killing her more than she thought it would. It's the craziest thing, this prison bond she’s made in four weeks, but it’s there all the same. There’s a name for that, she knows -- when people in dire situations form strong connections after suffering through things together -- she just can’t remember it, because the only name on her mind right now is _Quinn_.

Well, and Charlotte. But mostly Quinn. _God_ , she’s going to miss her. And good old Aphasia with her crazy, loveable ways, and, christ, maybe even Mack, who doesn’t want her to go! Spencer purses her lips at the kind sentiment -- from the raging psycho, of all people -- before Mack adds, _“Occupado.”_

_Oh._

She just meant Spencer can’t use the toilet, as it's brimming with a new batch of Pruno.

“I was starting to worry,” Quinn says playfully.

Spencer’s stomach tightens as she meets those bright eyes.

Aphasia, still spread-eagle on the bed, turns to Quinn, then back to Spencer, clearly confused as ever. “Wait, this the same girl?”

Yep, Spencer is going to miss her.

It’s not like they’ll never see each other. There’s the Mess Hall and classes and, god, the showers. It’s prison, for crying out loud, which is the entire problem in the first place. Spencer won’t really be able to escape these three any more than she can escape the other lunatics and the perpetual fear and the killer spider and the fucking Play-Doh.

But this transfer is a severance, nevertheless. It’s an end in a place that _is_ an end in itself, and this isn’t the new beginning she wants, not by a long shot. It feels like ten steps backward. Things keep getting worse the more she tries to make them better.

And she’s _tired_ , so very fucking tired, and wants nothing more than to curl up with Quinn in her bunk and forget how horrible this place is. But with a glance at her own bed, Spencer sees the giant yellow map on the wall and remembers why she’s standing here. There isn’t time for pleasantries or goodbyes, not to these people who didn’t stand by her when there was _murder_ going on.

Spencer’s on her own now.

It’s time to get down to business.

She holds out a hand to Aphasia, never taking her eyes off the smeared chalk. “Give me paper and a pencil.”

With a loud huff, Aphasia sits up and glares, clearly affronted, “What the hell would I have that for? We in prison. This ain’t Wal-Mart.”

“YOU HAVE EVERYTHING,” Spencer says. “Maracas and seat belts and Halloween decorations and THIGHMASTERS,” with an emphatic hand toward Aphasia’s knees. “Is there anything you DON’T have under that fucking mattress?”

“SHHHH!!!” Mack hisses at Spencer, motioning toward Boomer with her head overdramatically. As if all of this is really a fucking secret, or Boomer gives two shits.

“Well, I don’t have paper and pencil,” Aphasia snaps back. “Who needs that?”

“I NEED IT,” Spencer roars in frustration and sits on the edge of her bed, resting her forehead against her fist. _Why is everything so goddamn hard in this place?_  “Just for once, I need your help with something that’s actually important. But I guess that’s too much to ask.”

“You need your big gay jaw wired shut, is what you need,” Aphasia says, examining her fingernails as her legs keep pumping.

Spencer looks up and snaps, “You really put the ‘ _whore’_ in ‘hoarder’ ” without missing a beat.

“She puts the ‘ _der’_ in ‘hoarder,’ ” Mack mumbles from the toilet.

“Fuck you, Macaroni!” Aphasia says, slamming her Thighmaster down on the bed for emphasis. “Your hair is stupid, your nipples are ugly, and your wine tastes like that grey shit they made me drink when I had that upper GI Joe test at the doctor with the x-rays, and they _said_ it was a milkshake but it _wasn’t_ because later they told me it had metal in it, so it was really a _metalshake,_ and I TOLD them it was nasty but Mama said it was just really bad vanilla but it was a LIE and my poop was heavy for a week and NOW I HAVE TRUST ISSUES!”

Her body slams against the bed as she blindly throws the Thighmaster across the room at full strength, missing Quinn’s head by mere inches. It hits the wall and falls to the floor, and Aphasia turns, embarrassed, to see her mistake. Quinn’s staring her down, unimpressed and threatening, as Spencer stands awkwardly in the middle between them. No one moves or speaks. Spencer doesn’t even breathe.

Suddenly, a faint, high-pitched _wheeze_ \-- something like a balloon deflating -- cuts through the silence. All three girls turn their heads to glare at Mack, who shifts uncomfortably. “Oh, fuck off,” she grumbles.

Quinn stifles a laugh as she turns back to Aphasia. Her expression is softer now. “Give her the blue highlighter,” she says.

Spencer looks up to see Aphasia wafting one hand in front of her face, reaching the other hand under the mattress. She finds what she needs and yanks her hand out, jabbing Spencer hard in the hair with the pen. “Sorry,” Aphasia says, but she clearly doesn’t mean it.

“Here,” Quinn says. She picks up the book closest to her and tears off the back cover, which is plain white on the inside. It’s small, but it’ll do as a writing surface.

“Thanks,” Spencer replies softly.

Their fingers briefly connect in the exchange, but it’s not enough. All Spencer wants right now is for Quinn to touch her. How cruelly ironic that she’s being moved because she didn’t let Quinn touch her _enough_. She’s such a screw-up, she’s even doing prison wrong. /p >

“Hurry up,” Boomer says, banging a fist three times on the cell door.

“Keep your pants on,” Quinn snaps back at her.

That gives Spencer an idea. Maybe an impromptu spank session could earn her a few more days here? Spencer’s desperate enough, she’s considering unzipping and leaning over right here and now. She could power through it. She’d even take the inevitable broken nose from Mack afterward. Whatever will get Spencer’s body pressed back against the warmth of Quinn’s again, with those lips breathing softly across her ear.

Boomer yells and bangs again, and Spencer snaps out of her daydream and shakes it off. There’s nothing to be done at this point except what she came here for. Within a minute she’s holding a four-by-seven-inch bright blue map of clues and names. And with that, Spencer’s holding everything she owns. A hurried sketch of truth, an unwashed jumpsuit, and the seven tampons still shoved into her briefs. Time’s up.

_WAIT._

She reaches into her pillowcase and grabs her toothbrush, shoving it up her sleeve.

This catches Quinn's attention. “What’s going on?” she asks.

Finally, someone noticed this isn’t a typical trip to the warden's office. After all, Spencer’s still wearing handcuffs.

“They’re moving me,” Spencer says. “I gotta go.”

Quinn sits up. “Wait, what?”

“Umbridge,” Spencer says. “She told Sylvester to transfer me. I don’t know where.”

Quinn jumps down off the bunk and stands in front of Spencer, spitting mad and maybe ten seconds away from punching someone. “Let me talk to Sue!”

Boomer has her key in the lock but doesn’t turn it. “Get back up there, Quinn. _Now_.”

Pushing past Spencer, Quinn rushes the door and gets in Boomer’s face. “You can’t just take her away! This is bullshit!”

“It’s done,” Spencer says dismissively. She’s taking her frustration out on Quinn, which is the last thing she wants, but she can't stop herself.

“Back the fuck up, inmate” Boomer looks more intimidating now than ever before, eyes wide and sharing Quinn down hard.

The guards may have the weapons, but Spencer will bet on Quinn in a fight any day of the week. She seems to have that killer instinct and that look in her eye that says, _I already know where I’m going to hide your body._

Without another moment’s hesitation, Boomer grabs a small, black instrument from her hip-holster, points it through the bars at Quinn’s crotch, and pulls the trigger. A small wire shoots out and the claw at the end clamps to the skin beyond the thin threads. Quinn screams, falling to the floor as waves of electric current attack her again and again.

“QUINN!” Spencer cries out. She feels helpless, not knowing if she can rip the wires off without getting electrocuted herself. She turns to Boomer and yells, desperately, “STOP IT!”

But the guard just stares at the convulsing girl on the floor, not moving or reacting, and certainly not stopping it. She doesn’t look human, the way she’s so emotionally disconnected. She’s frozen in time with no regard to consequence, like a robot, or a machine.

Spencer’s crying now, crouched over, pleading, _“STOP! PLEASE!”_  She feels the toothbrush bristles scratching against her arm and wants nothing more than to take it and shove the handle in Boomer’s eye. If Spencer thought she could strike without missing, she would. But the goddamn bars are in the way, and her tears are blurring her vision.

Finally, the buzzing noise fades and a few seconds later, Quinn’s body stills.

Spencer has seen a lot of messed up things in space prison, but this is the scariest so far -- Quinn in a puddle on the floor, hair frizzled, body curled. Her face is still contorted in pain, and her fingers are twitching with reflexive aftershocks.

_She was just sticking up for me._

Boomer unlocks the door casually, unhooking the taser and reholstering it. “Let’s go,” she says to Spencer. But Spencer’s glued to the spot, terrified out of her mind. Boomer rolls her eyes and adds, “She’s not dead.”

“How could you do this?” Spencer cries.

 _“Let's go_ , Hastings!” Boomer shouts. “Or you’re next.” She reaches for her taser again, but Spencer now knows not to test her patience any longer.

With a sniffle, she carefully sidesteps Quinn’s mussed hair as she picks up the marker and map that she must have dropped on the floor. She holds for a moment, debating if she could reach over and check Quinn’s pulse or stroke her cheek. Something to tell her it’s going to be okay. But Spencer just stands and keeps going, never taking her eyes off the crumpled girl.

The door closes loudly behind her, signaling the end to the gruesome scene. Immediately, Mack rushes to Quinn and checks her vitals, tenderly brushing her hair out of her face and doing all the things Spencer wishes she could do. Here in the corridor, she can only look on, already a world away but wholly responsible for the damage done. Mack and Aphasia have no words for Spencer -- their eyes say plenty.

Spencer has brought nothing but trouble upon them, and they’re glad to see her go.

“You're a monster,” Spencer says to Boomer as she finally turns away. The tears aren’t holding themselves back anymore, and Spencer doesn’t care. “She didn’t do anything to you!”

“She disobeyed a direct order,” Boomer replies without a hint of regret.

“Fucking asshole _piece of FUCKING SHIT_ ,” Mack shouts, each word adding more volume and more loathing. 

Spencer thinks she can hear Quinn whisper her name as she starts to walk away, but it’s probably just the fans. The air in this place, like everything else, isn’t real anyway.


	25. New Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

The Walk of Shame is over before it even begins, as Boomer takes Spencer all of twelve feet next door.

“That’s it?”

The door to cell 11 slides open, and three faces stare back at her -- one very interested, one very much not, and one looking at Spencer like she’s the dinner they're waiting for.

Boomer pushes Spencer inside hard, quickly shuts the door, and walks away. No wishes of luck this time.

Spencer examines her new cellmates, two of whom she already knows all too well -- River Tam and Dark Willow. They’re easily the weirdest people in this prison, save the fluffy mystery that is Lucy Fabray. Spencer’s definitely going to need all the luck she can get.

The third girl, who’s already undressing Spencer with her eyes, is a brand new face. She has slick, long brown hair and beautiful features, no bulging veins or permanent creepy expression, plus bonus points for above-prison-average hygiene. She vaguely resembles that girl from the movie about women who dance on bars, Coyote Something-or-Other, not that Spencer was paying any attention when Hanna drunkenly put it on. Because that would’ve been very gay.

If cell 10 is a funhouse mirror of Spencer’s friends back home, cell 11 is Two Crazies and a Predator. It looks like she'll need to get used to a new bunk, too, since Dark Willow's got the bottom-right one. Spencer doubts her new top-right bunk has the same veritable wealth of items beneath it that Aphasia's does. Only one way to find out.

This isn’t her first rodeo, so Spencer decides to take a new, aggressive approach this time. “River. Dark Willow,” she says, nodding to each girl in turn. 

_That’s right, look like you own the place._

She then turns to the horndog on the bottom left bunk, under River’s, and crosses her arms. Spencer’s definitely never seen her before, and she’s delighted to finally have seniority over someone. “Who are you?”

The girl has one leg wrapped around the vertical beam, bent at the knee, and she’s smoking a cigarette with an air of arrogance, as if saying, _“Hi, here's my crotch. Please get in it. Isn’t lung cancer sexy?”_  She looks like a hooker sloth. The annoying part is, it’s almost as charming as she thinks it is. “Paulie.” She lifts her eyebrows once. “Oster.” Paulie rests her cigarette between her lips to extend a free hand to Spencer.

Yeah, there’s no way she’s touching that.

Spencer waits her out, staring her down and asserting her authority. After an awkward moment, Paulie tries to save face by continuing the conversation. “I was just telling River she should pick a Shakespeare for the next Book Club assignment. Whattaya say, New Girl?”

_Hey, you don’t get to call me that! I was here first!_

Spencer steadies herself, careful not to show any emotion. Step One to being the boss: Make them like you even if you don’t like them.

“Macbeth,” Spencer answers plainly.

Paulie practically flies off the bed with a squeal of delight, taking Spencer’s hands and twirling her around 720 degrees in a spontaneous dance. “Macbeth is the BEST!” she says when they come to a stop, then glares at River. “This is what I’ve been _saying_.” She looks at Spencer adoringly. “Finally, someone with good taste! I like you, New Girl.”

The feeling isn’t mutual. “It’s ‘Spencer,’ and I’m not new. I’ve been living next door for weeks.”

“What brings you here, then? You stab somebody, New Girl?” Paulie’s clearly a great listener. “Kidnap your cousin? Run over an old guy with his newborn grandbaby in his arms?”

_What?_

From the bunk above, River says, “She crossed the A,” and traces the letter in the air with a boney finger, eyes curiously following the path as she moves.

Spencer looks back at Paulie and widens her eyes in concern, like their cellmate must have shimmied out of her straight-jacket earlier that day. And then eaten it. With a deep sign, Spencer addresses the original question. If they’re playing Get To Know You, she’s going to rewind to the murder part and leave the _"Please don’t spank me"_   cell transfer out of it entirely. She’s scarier that way. “I killed my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Paulie and Dark Willow say together, as if Spencer has uttered something terrible and shocking. Then, Dark Willow adds, “For real?”

“ _That’s_ the part that bothers you?”

“Sweetie,” Dark Willow says, “Who in here hasn’t killed somebody? Show of hands?” 

Nobody moves.

“Yeah,” she continues, “that’s the scary part.” She looks like she needs a drink just from having to think about men for two seconds.

“He deserved it,” Spencer adds with a shrug.

Dark Willow’s tone darkens significantly as her voice drops. “They all deserve it.”

“Rage more,” Paulie says with a grin, as if initiating Spencer into their Cool Killers Club. Something about Paulie makes her look like she’s always up to no good. Like she has a secret she’s dying to tell you that you should be dying to know, but god only knows what you need to do to get it out of her.

 _Probably reach in with your tongue_ , Spencer thinks, _judging by the way she’s looking at me_. _Which, no, thank you_.

Paulie then says, “Weapon of choice?” It sounds so casual, like she’s asking what flavor of Kool-Aid Spencer prefers or what knitting stitch she favors.

“They turn you like a screw,” River interjects, “so you smash them with a hammer. The blood upon your ha--”

“SHUT UP,” Spencer shouts. “Will you just SHUT UP?”

Saying no more, River climbs down from her bunk with the grace of a Capuchin in the rainforest. She promptly propels herself into a handstand in the center of the room, lowering her legs into a split, parallel to the ground. Her hands move her in a circle, spinning her around like a helicopter. It’s a miracle she doesn’t hit her feet on the vertical beams of the bunk. Spencer steps back to a safe distance with a “What the fuck?” expression.

Dark Willow hand-waves and says, “She just does that. Please, go on.”

Spencer climbs up to her new bed, and they talk about murder weapons and techniques for at least an hour before moving on to blood stain removal tricks, how long to let victims live before killing them, and their favorite types of pizza crust. (After about twenty minutes, River stops spinning and walks on her hands over to the toilet. Pulling herself up, she remains perched in a handstand as she pukes directly down into it. She’s much better at holding conversation after that.) Morbid as the topics are, it’s a fun and welcoming energy, and certainly a friendlier environment to Spencer. 

A part of Spencer hates that she’s already happier here, at least when she considers the whole versus the sum of its parts. Because all of these parts are _batshit crazy_ , and none of them are Quinn. But she’ll take what she can get right now.


	26. Spencer tries to fuck Quinn or whatever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It should be peaceful, Spencer thinks, now that she’s out of range of Aphasia’s snoring. It’s not like the bed feels any different from her last one, and Charlotte hasn’t followed her – at least that she knows of. But the hours tick by, long after lights-out, and Spencer continues to stare at the ceiling, wide awake. Her thoughts won’t slow down long enough to settle. Usually, she spends her restless nights revisiting the specifics of a case, turning them over in her mind to find new angles or connect pieces together.

But not tonight. Instead, images of Quinn screaming and crumpling to the ground replay in her head, endlessly on loop. And there in the footage stands Spencer, worthless and paralyzed, not doing a goddamn thing to stop it.

_Fuck Boomer._

She restarts the scene again and again, sometimes playing the hero, other times not. But what’s done is done, and Quinn will never forgive her. Spencer didn’t even have the chance to apologize, though she’s not exactly sure what for, exactly. She has all night to figure it out now. A guilty conscience doesn’t sleep.

The next morning, when Buffy comes to collect them for breakfast, Spencer knows she has bags under her eyes. Jumping down, she runs to splash water on her face and get to the door as quickly as possible. She needs to talk to Quinn, baggage and all.

She files out into the corridor second, right behind Paulie. Just ten feet ahead she sees pink-blonde hair, and her pulse quickens. Spencer leans forward and hisses, “Quinn!” Not loud enough. Spencer pokes her head out to the side and tries again, though this time Paulie swats a hand at her face like she’s a gnat in her ear.

Again, Quinn doesn’t turn around, but Mack shoots Spencer a nasty side-eye.

An unfamiliar voice behind her yells, _“Shut the fuck up!”_

Spencer whips her head around, but it’s a group of women she doesn’t know yet; it could’ve been any of them. She takes a deep breath for a third and final attempt, but then Buffy knocks her back into line with a sharp elbow to the side. Spencer clutches her ribs with a grimace. _Okay_ , maybe she’ll try again in the Mess Hall.

Breakfast is just as noisy as always, and Spencer’s halfway through formulating a plan of attack when she catches Quinn bailing out of line to go sit at their usual table, without food. Spencer considers her options. She can eat like she’s supposed to, or she can join Quinn and hopefully get a moment alone to apologize. Maybe Quinn will want to meet during rec time so they can talk m--

“Line’s moving,” says Sophia Burset loudly, cutting through her daydream. She’s the tallest woman on the _Uterius_ and looks even more imposing when right behind Spencer.

 _Food first, Quinn later,_ Spencer decides. That is, if Mack doesn’t stab her in the throat with her spork. By now, Spencer’s used to the constant danger of being shanked by an angry brunette.

Directly ahead of her, the brains of the cosmetic industry are discussing the menu.

“Do you think the eggs are, like, real eggs?” Maritza asks Flaca.

“What else would it be?”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think they have chickens in space.”

Flaca looks like a hard truth has just been dropped on her. “Then what the hell kind of eggs are they feeding us here? Alien eggs or some shit? Is that why my skin’s been more oily lately?” She looks sincerely concerned.

Maritza examines her cheeks carefully, “I don’t think so. It’s probably all that hooch you been drinking.”

“Oh yeah,” Flaca agrees.

Spencer decides to help those less fortunate than her. “The eggs are from a powder,” she says, leaning in.

“Powder?” Flaca says, turning her head with a look of disgust. There’s a dramatic shift in her tone now that she’s addressing someone other than her soulmate. “How the hell you gonna make eggs from a powder? That’s how you make pancakes.” She refocuses on Maritza and softens with a smile. “Actually, I kind of like the idea of alien eggs. It’s exotic.”

“Right?” Maritza says. “Like, imagine what they’d pay for that in LA.”

“Probably like five thousand dollars,” Flaca says.

“Mmhmm.”

“We’re lucky, if you really think about it.”

Maritza agrees. “So lucky.”

Thankfully, they reach the pickup counter before Spencer is subjected to further invigorating discussion. She collects her breakfast -- pointedly skipping the eggs --  and marches over to Quinn with all the steely determination she can muster. She practiced the conversation a thousand times last night and has it all planned out. The distance closes, then Spencer plants herself behind Aphasia, facing Quinn and Mack, and takes a deep breath for strength.

Before she can utter a word or even put her tray down, something solid pelts her in the face. Spencer flinches upon impact, more from disbelief than anything else.

“My waffles!” Aphasia cries.

Mack growls, “Table’s _full,”_ and fires a second starchy assault, then a third.

Spencer holds a hand up to block any more incoming bricks. And of course, now she’s got maple syrup on her uniform. Again. “Quinn,” she says around her arm. She can take an entire firing squad of waffles to the face if it means Quinn at least _looks_ at her.

Which, she doesn’t. Quinn doesn’t even so much as glance up from the table. Mack eventually runs out of waffles to throw _,_ but it doesn’t matter. They’ve made it clear there’s no place for her here. In the middle of this raucous cafeteria, Quinn’s silence is deafening.

The noises around her begin to spin and swirl together as her head starts to pound. Spencer can feel the burn behind her eyes, and her throat’s closing up, and it’s _outside Toby’s apartment_ all over again. She can’t do this, not again, not here. Not with Mack practically gloating.

_Fuck Mack._

_Fuck Boomer, and fuck Mack._

Spencer chokes it all back and stalks off to join her new cellmates on the other side of the room. She’s never been to this table before or seen the cafeteria from this angle. Familiar backs of heads now have fronts, and everyone she knows well is out of sight and a world away.

It’s weird.

But still, Spencer relaxes a bit as she takes her seat. Dark Willow and River probably won’t throw food at her, and Paulie certainly isn’t going to just _ignore_ her. Right now, the change of venue provides an escape. She almost wants to become someone else, take on a whole new persona and erase the last four weeks.

Almost.

No, Spencer’s not giving up. Mack can’t form an impenetrable barrier around Quinn _all_ the time, like when she’s in Play-Doh Funhouse. Plus, Quinn could now be signed up for classes that Mack’s not in. Spencer will join anything to see her. Even motherfucking Bees, if that's what it takes. She can do this. She’s gone up against worse enemies than some half-ass, malcontent prison bitch.

After breakfast, she looks at the class schedule posted outside the library on her way back to cell 11. The Wednesday choices are Alcoholics and Group Therapy, which Spencer finds a bit redundant. Quinn wasn’t taking a Wednesday class before, but maybe she just wanted more bunk time with Spencer. And maybe Quinn has joined something now in the hopes that Spencer will be there. They could both be working the same motive; it’s plausible. And it’s the best plan Spencer’s got.

Quinn has never mentioned a problem with addiction, so Spencer takes the safer choice, Group Therapy. And, honestly, with everything going on right now, some girl talk doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world. Spencer might get a new lead on the murders. At the very least, she’ll be able to air out some frustration over the transfer. She can’t be the only one here who’s been screwed over by Umbridge.

As an added bonus, it’s likely that Mack goes to Alcoholics. Though, it wouldn’t surprise Spencer if they just sit around and drink for fifty-five minutes. With the week she’s had, Spencer’s almost considering going there instead just on the hunch. Almost.

That afternoon, Spencer discovers she’s the only one from her cell taking a Wednesday class, so she files into the line alone. Sure enough, Mack and Aphasia step out ahead of her, as predicted, but Spencer’s heart drops when Quinn doesn’t follow. The doors slam close; it’s too late to change her mind now. Spencer walks past cell 10, keeping pace with the others, and Quinn’s up on her bunk, face buried in a book like nothing’s happening, nothing’s changed. Like Spencer’s nothing to her.

“Quinn,” Spencer says, and she hates how weak she sounds. She hates everything about this. _“Quinn.”_

The book drops closed on her stomach. “What?” Her tone is impatient, hostile. Like she’s fighting back something.

 _“MOVE IT!”_ shouts Boomer’s voice from the back of the line. Spencer can’t stall forever.

“Can we just talk? Please?”

“You’re late for class.” Quinn fingers through the pages and finds her spot.

“I was trying to see you!”

Quinn’s expression hardens as she says, “I’ve been right here. You’re the one who left.”

It hits Spencer like a punch in the gut, and then she really does feel a shove as the line pushes forward. Spencer’s swept forward against her will, wanting to go back and fix it, to explain that it wasn’t her fault, that she _tried_. But now they’re nearing the end of the hall, about to turn the corner. She glances into the other cells as they pass, but they all look the same -- mostly empty inside, like her.

The lone exception is the last one -- Lucy Fabray’s cell. The three girls are simply lying on their beds, silent but awake, and Spencer can only imagine what they’ll be up to when the traffic’s gone. A rousing session of macaroni art, perhaps, or that thing where you use your hand to make a turkey. It could get wild in there!

Buffy leads them down the corridor and around to the parallel hall where most classes take place. Mack and the other girls going to Alcoholics break off into the library with Boomer. The Small Arms room, Spencer’s destination, is down at the very far end past most of the other spaces. Eight or nine girls walk in ahead of her, most of whom Spencer doesn’t really recognize, other than Aphasia. There’s a circle of metal chairs in the middle of the room and more door-less lockers lining the walls, just like in the Large Arms Room. Buffy’s gone, but Greggs is back, leaning against the door frame and looking more than a little bored with her assignment. It seems she’s there to keep them from escaping or throwing chairs at each other. Though, that could be very therapeutic.

As the last inmates settle into their chairs, the awkward silence begins, and Spencer wonders just what the instructor, Sameen Shaw, is waiting for. Shaw’s got her arms crossed, slumped over in her chair. She looks more pissed than anyone to be there and just stares angrily at the wall behind Spencer’s head, motionless.

“Hello, everyone,” says a voice to Spencer’s left. The woman's hair is done in little knots on her head, and Spencer can’t help but think she resembles a Bumble Ball. “I guess I’ll get us started today. I’m Suzanne.” The woman pauses, as if expecting a reply, but Spencer doesn’t know the protocol here, so she doesn’t say anything. Neither does anyone else. Suzanne continues to speak slowly but very animatedly with her hands, each word emphasized by her expressive face and very big eyes. “I was hoping to share a poem I --”

“No,” says Shaw, still staring straight ahead at nothing.

“I wrote it when--”

“No,” Shaw repeats.

“I just have all these _feelings_ , you know?”

“No.”

“I think you’d really like i--”

“No.” Shaw’s expression hasn’t changed at all.

“But this is group therapy, right?” Suzanne asks and laughs a little at her own question. “Where else am I gonna share what’s _inside_ me?”

“Figure it out.” Shaw’s tone makes it clear that point is not up for debate.

Spencer has no idea why this woman volunteered to run this class, or how the assignments even work around here, come to think of it. But it’s obviously a bad match, unless there’s some great plan in store, like a psych exercise in progress that Spencer just doesn’t know about. After five more minutes of uncomfortable silence, it seems doubtful.

She figures she might as well try to get something out of her fifty-five minutes here. It looks like she’s stuck, either way. “Um, hi, everyone,” Spencer says nervously, and all eyes lock on her. “I was hoping to ask the group something, if that’s okay.”

Aphasia looks particularly concerned.

Not surprisingly, Shaw says, “No.”

“You don’t even know what it is,” Spencer says.

Shaw turns to stare her down and raises an eyebrow, reminding her far too much of Quinn. “I don’t care.”

“How the hell is this supposed to be therapy if we can’t talk about anything?”

“Yeah!” Suzanne says, pointing at Spencer in a gesture of solidarity. “Let Cauliflower talk!”

Spencer does a double take and scowls but lets it go. ‘Cauliflower’ is better than ‘Maple Tits.’

“No,” Shaw says flatly yet again, eyes still locked on Spencer. She looks downright sociopathic. Gorgeous, but sociopathic.

Spencer throws caution to the wind and just goes for it. “Look, there’s this spider, and --”

“Are you deaf or just stupid?” Shaw asks, leaning forward with a hardened glare.

“We don’t talk about s-p-i-ders,” Suzanne says with wide eyes. “Some people have _phobias_.” Ever so slightly, she gestures toward Aphasia. It’s the least subtle hint Spencer’s ever seen, but she takes it.

_Fine. Whatever._

“This is pointless.” Spencer turns to the guard and asks, “Can I leave?”

But Greggs only shakes her head. “Sorry, kid.” Her tone has that, _We’re both stuck here together_ quality. “Not til time’s up.”

“What if I have to pee?” She’s just getting cute now.

“But you _don’t_   have to pee,” Greggs retorts, throwing a little attitude back.

Spencer slumps in her chair, defeated. The room is silent for several minutes other than the soft shuffling of jumpsuits when someone has an itch. Spencer is regretting this whole stupid plan that’s been a complete waste of time. She knows Quinn doesn’t like to take classes. Getting her hopes up for nothing has only made her feel shittier.

Out of nowhere, Vasquez offers up, “I like to shoot people,” from two seats to Spencer’s right. It breaks the tension, however awkward it is, and Spencer’s more than a little nervous at the confession. She didn’t want a reminder that she’s among violent criminals.

Rather than shut down the speaker, however, Shaw’s face softens slightly. “Tell me more about that,” she says with a slight grin.

When the forty-five minutes of lively conversation is up, Spencer wonders why this particular class isn’t just called Murder. It’s a dead end, regardless, and Spencer won’t be going back.

As the inmates head out into the hallway, Spencer crosses to get behind Aphasia, cutting the line as politely as she can. “Hey,” she whispers. “Can I ask you something?”

“I'm not giving you any heavy-flow tampons!” Aphasia says, much too loudly. Several women up ahead turn and laugh.

“That’s not --” Spencer starts. “Look, will you please just tell Quinn I’m sorry? The last thing I wanted was to get moved away. It was all Umbridge.”

That certainly gets Aphasia’s attention. She stops walking and turns to look Spencer dead in the eye. “What did she say?”

Spencer stumbles, a bit thrown by the inquiry. Aphasia looks scared. “Uh.” She knows she shouldn’t lie, but she doesn't want to say this out loud. “That I want Quinn to spank me?”

Aphasia frowns and turns to keep walking. “You wasting my time.”

“I swear I’m telling the truth!” Spencer pleads, trying to control her volume. “She kept asking me questions about all kinds of --”

“Did she say my name?” Aphasia interrupts.

_What?_

“No?” Spencer says. “Why? D’you steal her favorite kitten plate or something?”

 _“HEY!”_ Greggs shouts from close behind. “Quiet down. This ain’t The View. Keep moving.”

“Nevermind,” Aphasia says quickly and resumes her pace. “Just...don’t trust her. Don’t tell her anything. _Anything.”_

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

But Spencer didn't exactly keep her mouth shut in there, throwing her spider theories all over the place. Maybe she’s already said too much.

Three hours later, after dinner, Paulie’s showing River how to blow smoke rings. She boasts she can even do it with her ass _(“Watch!”)_ before Dark Willow and Spencer both shout “NO.” And then Spencer hears an all-too-familiar sound in the corridor.

Her chest tightens with every slap and accompanying scream coming from next door.

 _Of course._  It’s still Wednesday.

And, apparently, being tasered in the fucking genitals isn’t enough to stop Quinn from getting her spank on.

Spencer feels stupid for thinking Quinn wouldn’t go back to Mack. Just because she stood up to Boomer on Spencer’s behalf, it doesn’t necessarily mean Quinn has real feelings for her. Or does it? Quinn’s been here long enough; she had to know about the taser. Maybe she felt it was worth it. But then, if she did, she wouldn’t be treating Spencer like this.

Spencer refuses to believe she’s the villain of this story. She didn’t ask for any of this. Quinn can’t blame her for everything, can she? Not forever?

But maybe Quinn doesn’t want to think about her at all right now. Maybe she’s just returning to what she knows, Spencer realizes. It’s what we do when we’ve been knocked down and reduced to nothing. We go home. Maybe it’s safer that way.

Maybe Quinn is better off without Spencer after all.

Turning over in her bunk, she listens for Quinn’s voice between Mack’s pained gasps but hears only the sharp _smack_ of the paddle against tender, bruised skin.

Meanwhile, River is up on the far end of her bunk, reaching all the way over to the bars and putting her head through somehow. Her body is angled around so she has a view into the cell next door. Spencer can’t be bothered to chastise her to give Quinn some privacy. She doesn’t want to have an opinion on anything to do with Quinn right now.

There’s a particularly loud noise, probably from Mack, followed by a series of moans that Spencer recognizes as her orgasm sounds. Quinn’s probably got at least one finger inside Mack right this very moment.

“Aren’t you glad to be away from _that_ ,” Paulie offers half-jokingly and bites at the thick ring of smoke drifting from her face.

“Yeah,” she replies with a laugh and turns over to face the wall.

But really, Spencer doesn’t know. She has no fucking idea.

****************

The next Wednesday isn’t any better. Spencer’s imagination now paints the scene with much more extravagance than she ever witnessed firsthand -- Quinn’s face glowing with arousal at each slap she administers, head thrown back and mouth open with joy. Aphasia, handing her item after item, endlessly, and Mack, ass high and wanting, leaning in to take the full impact of Quinn’s force. All the while, there’s an undertone that they’re laughing at her. Spencer obsesses over this outrageous mental picture more and more with each passing minute.

Because, clearly, she fucking hates herself.

The next morning, as she’s poking at her burnt hash browns, Spencer overhears Paulie talking at length about the new Tax class she’s teaching in the kitchen. She brags that Sue was so excited by her area of expertise, she dropped the redundant Knives class to make room for it on the schedule. Supposedly, this started last week, though it’s the first Spencer’s heard of it. 

What’s blowing her mind is that Paulie has a background in accounting(!) Maybe that’s why Paulie’s here – she used her bookkeeping knowledge for nefarious purposes like tax evasion, embezzlement, or a host of other things. Even if that’s what the class ends up being about, Spencer’s still excited to do some math. She really misses math. Balancing books, legally or otherwise, sounds positively delicious right now. _Maybe that’s why it’s in the kitchen_ , she muses to herself.

But before Spencer can ask if she prefers cash method or accrual method, Paulie starts raving about how well the first class went last week. Turns out, she already has a prize pupil.

“I think Quinn’s gonna finish her skunk next week,” Paulie says proudly. “The look in his eyes...it’s like he’s been hunting you day and night for weeks, and you accidentally caught him in a moment of weakness, like he was taking a shit or something when you crept up behind him, and he can’t believe he did something so stupid as to get busted by such a pathetic creature as _you_.”

It takes a moment for Spencer to put two and two together – the only math she’ll be doing today, it seems. Paulie’s beloved “tax” class is just short for Taxidermy.

_Of course it is._

Sadly, this makes a lot more sense, as does the location. (Spencer’s trying not to overthink it.) What isn’t making sense, however, is this star student.

“Quinn’s in that class?” Spencer asks as innocently as possible.

“Girl’s got a gift. She sees the beauty in death and captures it like a fucking artist.” Paulie looks a bit sad when she says, “She’s way better than me.”

Spencer can’t think of anything creepier than making art out of dead animals, but this is a sure way in. Provided Mack isn’t there of course. “Is the class full? It sounds really interesting.” Just to be safe, she adds, “Could I make a lobster?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> During the initial drafting process, we had chapter titles based on plot points, then later I adjusted many of them to puns. We were too emotionally attached to this one to change it.


	27. Mount Me, Stuff Me, Shoot Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Later that afternoon, it isn’t hard to spot Quinn among the handful of Taxidermy students, with her pink hair and the rather immaculate skunk that inspired reams of poetry from Paulie. Spencer has waited over a week to have a real conversation with Quinn, and now it’s time to put up or shut up, as they say. She ducks in the doorway behind Lucy Diamond and weaves through the kitchen to take the seat next to Quinn. Paulie has already set up a work station for Spencer, complete with a plastic knife, an Elmer’s glue stick, a pillow (ripped open, for the stuffing), and a dead rat.

“Sorry, New Girl,” Paulie tells her. “Martha was out of lobsters, but she had this.”

Spencer purses her lips and nods slowly, staring at the rigor mortis rodent. “No problem,” she says as genuinely as she can. She’s not here for the project, anyway. At last, this is time with Quinn, free from Mack and Aphasia and periods, with no killer spiders in sight.

She can do this.

And Paulie wasn’t wrong – the skunk is damn impressive.

But before Spencer can get the conversation going, Quinn breaks the ice for her, looking over with a raised eyebrow. “Didn’t know you liked this kinda thing.”

Spencer gives a small smile as her brain gears shift into overdrive, trying to come up with an appropriately innuendo-laden response. She’s clever and loquacious. This should be easy.

_“The only thing I like in here is you.”_

  _That’s cheesy._

  _“I heard you were good with your hands and wanted to see for myself?”_

  _...That’s even worse._

_God, where’s Hanna when you need her._

Time’s running out.

Quinn’s drinking from a plastic cup and not even facing Spencer anymore -- she’s watching Shay staple antlers to a parakeet’s head. But that doesn’t stop Spencer from finally blurting out, “I’m not interested in stuffing _animals_.”

_OH MY GOD WHAT WHY WHAT._

Spencer hears a strangled choke as Quinn coughs hard around a garbled, _“Excuse me?”_   trying to clear the water from her windpipe.

_Well, fuck._

She realizes now the correct response was, _“I could say the same about you,”_  but that moment has passed. Spencer’s started down this road. No turning back now. “You heard me,” she replies with a shrug.

_Seductive yet playful._

_A+ recovery._

After a few beats -- during which Paulie passes by and waxes nostalgic about how much that skunk reminds her of boarding school or whatever -- Quinn leans closer to Spencer and says, “Okay. Really, why are you here?”

Spencer shrugs again as she picks up a plastic knife and twirls it between her fingers, a little more self-conscious of her foreplay attempts now that Quinn isn’t really reciprocating. “I want to apologize,” she says without meeting Quinn’s eye. “For…” She realizes she doesn’t know what to say. Anyone could be listening, and she doesn’t want to embarrass Quinn further with, _“getting your genitals electrocuted.”_  She settles on just “...Boomer.”

Quinn’s shoulders tense as she straightens and back away from Spencer. “It’s fine.”

“I just...didn’t want you to hate me for what happened, and it seemed like you might?” Spencer lets the plastic knife fall to the workstation. “You were ignoring me, and Mack was throwing food, and--”

Quinn cuts her off. “I said it’s _fine_. Don’t worry about it.” She starts running a brush through the skunk’s fur.

“But I--”

 _“Spencer!”_  Quinn barks, finally looking back up. The class pauses and looks over but soon resumes their activities when they don’t get a show. Quinn closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. “They were taking you away. It wasn't your fault.” She shrugs. “It’s not a big deal.”

Spencer shakes her head. “It is to me.”

Quinn meets her eyes for the first time today, but then looks back down and whispers, “I know.” She reaches out and gives Spencer’s leg a gentle squeeze, safely hidden under the table.

The little hairs along Spencer’s arms stand on end, even after Quinn lets go. She really needs to get control of herself before she throws Quinn down on this table here and now.

Spencer’s hand shoots up and she calls out, “Excuse me! Bathroom emergency!”

Paulie looks amused by the outburst. “You can’t hold it, New Girl?”

“I...have a spastic colon.” She winces visibly as the words leave her lips.

A chorus of _“Girl, no,”_ and _“Nasty!”_  reverberates through the kitchen.

Paulie waves a shooing hand at Spencer with a, “Whattaya still standing here for?” as the murmur of laughs die down.

Of course, this is all for naught if Quinn doesn’t follow her. Spencer reaches out and tugs discreetly on Quinn’s jumpsuit to get her attention, then heads for the door without looking back. She can feel the collective stares of the class on her with every step.

Spencer just made herself Shit Girl of space prison. So far beyond the halcyon days of Maple Tits. Very, very far.

_Please, Quinn, make this worth it._

****************

Spencer’s been idling by one of the sinks in the communal bathroom for at least five minutes, berating herself for such a stark lack of game, when the door swings open. She’s so relieved, her body slumps forward as she sighs, “Oh, thank god.”

“Spastic colon?” Quinn wanders casually toward Spencer, looking her up and down. “Is that what they call it now?”

Spencer holds on to the edge of the counter with both hands and tries to keep her wits about her as the distance between them slowly but steadily erodes. She has no idea how to play cool in this situation, or any other where Quinn is concerned.

“Call what?” is all she can manage in response, and now the sway of Quinn’s hips is hypnotizing her, and, _Dear god, what is air?_

Two more steps, dangerously close, and Quinn’s gorgeous face stops. Quinn places her hands on top of Spencer’s, still gripping for dear life, and looks back and forth from pleading eyes to parted lips.

Leaning in, close enough that Spencer can feel the breath against her face, Quinn says, “When you want _so badly_ to get fucked in a bathroom that you’ll do just about anything to get it.”

Yeah, Spencer can’t breathe anymore.

Her eyes fall closed, head heavy with the intensity of the moment -- the warm words brushing her lips, hazel eyes staring right through her, the strong fingers clamped on hers, and all of her sensing just how near that perfect body is.

“I…” she starts, somehow, with the last bit of air in her lungs, but it’s futile.

Quinn’s kissing her, pulled closer by the hand now tangled deep in Spencer’s hair. There’s a thigh firmly planted between her own, matching the gentle force of Quinn’s tongue against hers and pressing with purpose. And the _sound_ Quinn’s making as she moves is unlike any Spencer’s ever heard.

She is so gone.

Everything is a rush and a blur, lost in the feeling of Quinn _everywhere_. She’s fantasized about this, but her imagination is crap. Because now Quinn’s thumb is dragging across the nipples behind thin black fabric, and the weaker Spencer’s knees become, the firmer Quinn’s leg braces against her. Her quivering elbows are saved only by the strong arm around her lower back. And Spencer doesn’t even know how she’s still standing -- or _if_ she’s standing at all, anymore.

In one smooth motion, Quinn lifts her onto the low counter, and Spencer wraps her arms and legs around Quinn’s beautiful body to kiss her harder. Roaming hands slide down to Spencer’s ass and try to draw their bodies even closer together. Spencer wonders if Quinn’s glorious abs can feel her wet heat through the thin cloth. She rolls her hips once, needing to know, and Quinn’s hands tighten their grip in response, pulling Spencer forward, pleading for more.

A soft whimper escapes Spencer’s mouth as Quinn’s teeth drag along her bottom lip. The noise only makes Quinn recapture those lips and kiss her deeper. But then suddenly all the pressure against Spencer’s body is released at once and her jumpsuit zipper is zooming downward fast. The rush of cool air on her chest makes her gasp against the kiss, and Spencer holds that breath in, imagining what it will feel like to have Quinn’s hands on her skin after all this time.

But instead of pushing the jumpsuit aside to explore underneath it, Quinn takes a fistful of the loose fabric and pulls on it, hard, holding Spencer in place as the kiss breaks. It’s startling, and Spencer opens her eyes, honestly afraid of what might happen next. The intense look on Quinn’s face, inches away, doesn’t relax her one bit. Neither does the long silence.

“I can take you,” Quinn finally says, staring Spencer down hard with that locked grip. “Right here.” It’s not a challenge, it’s a statement of fact. And something in Quinn’s voice tells Spencer that she either damn well wants to or is certainly about to. Maybe both. “I can _take..._ everything you have.” Quinn doesn’t even blink. “Anything I want.” Her eyes drift down slowly and linger there. She makes sure Spencer sees it. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Every muscle in Spencer’s body is outside her control. Not that she would protest even if she could. Quinn isn’t wrong at all.

She sits there, paralyzed, mesmerized, not sure if she’s more lost in Quinn’s eyes or her words. Spencer feels herself shaking with adrenaline and want, watching helplessly as Quinn’s eyes search each line of her face, as if looking for a crack. Looking for a way in. But Spencer’s wide open.

She wonders if Quinn can hear every inch of her body begging to be touched.

In an instant, Quinn’s face shifts from its predatory stance to hesitant and almost fearful, lips parting slightly as her eyes flash with realization. “I can take everything you _are_ , Spencer,” she says delicately. Quinn’s brow furrows as she considers her point, shaken by the implications of her conclusion but knowing she’s right.

Spencer knows it, too.

But then Quinn releases the fistfuls of black and takes a slight step back, just enough to let Spencer breathe without fully releasing her charge.

It’s an unwelcome change. She immediately misses the warmth and closeness and, hell, the rush of fear and desperation. Quinn’s going to walk away and leave her here wanting just to show Spencer she can.

Only, she doesn’t.

Instead, Quinn’s eyes soften and her mouth quivers, just once, as she whispers shakily, “...or you can give it to me.”

There's the slightest hitch in Spencer's breath, an involuntary reaction. Quinn's eyes are locked on hers again, scared and begging, and Spencer can't move, can't think. The words replay in her head like a beautiful dream, and if she can remember how to move, Quinn might make that dream come true.

Everything else falls away; the faint echo of slurs down the corridor, broken toilets behind broken doors, the reality of her new life a world away from everyone who ever loved her. Quinn's eyes are glistening with vulnerability and need, and nothing else matters.

Spencer’s arms are heavy, but she somehow finds a way to move. Ever so faintly, over the pounding in her ears, she can hear the soft rustle of her jumpsuit sliding off her shoulders and falling against the counter.

For a few long seconds, the silence envelopes them as they consider the implications of Spencer’s choice and what they're about to do -- how their lives are about to change -- but then Quinn's mouth is on hers again and the hammering pulse in Spencer’s veins suddenly shifts to a much lower location.

She leans hard into the kiss, back arching as her hands find Quinn’s neck and hair to take control of their encounter for the first time. She feels electric, like her body is literally buzzing with the frequency of Quinn’s moans, and she’s eagerly seeking out pressure against Quinn’s stomach again, because if she doesn’t get release _soon_ , she’s probably going to die.

Spencer pushes Quinn’s mouth down against her neck and holds it there, tilting her head back to give wider access, and she can’t help the _“Oh god”_   from escaping once (or twelve times) at the sensation of hard bites on sensitive skin. The legs wrapped around Quinn’s back squeeze tighter as their bodies move together in a seamless dance of give and take.

Placing one hand firmly on Spencer’s back, Quinn moves the other to her breast, pushing past the cotton cup without hesitation to tease the hardened nipple. She twists and pinches in time with long strokes of her tongue along Spencer’s neck, then palms the soft weight with gentle pressure, seeming to relish how perfectly it fits in her hand.

Even with just this simple action, there’s a stark difference Spencer can’t help but notice. Toby -- or any boyfriend she’d had, for that matter -- felt so foreign, so large and clumsy and imposing and just...wrong. Everything about Quinn’s body seems to be made to match Spencer’s. The contrast of soft skin with determined strength, the way their curves complement and fit into each other, the incredible things Quinn just _knows_ to do to her…

Releasing a handful of pinkish-blonde hair, Spencer takes Quinn’s hand and stills it with a gentle squeeze. She focuses all her energy into a careful, tender kiss before pulling back and opening her eyes.

There’s an unreadable expression on Quinn’s face, like she doesn’t know if she’s made a mistake but can’t bring herself to ask. She isn’t moving, waiting for answers and reprieve.

“Quinn,” Spencer whispers, heart pounding again as she gathers the strength to speak. The fingers on her chest feel so small and fragile now.

Slowly, she moves Quinn’s hand through the narrow, empty space between their bodies, eyes following all the way down, and stops when they reach the V of the zipper just below her navel. They hover there together for a moment, Quinn so near to where Spencer needs her to be and aching with want to close the distance. Spencer steadies herself and finds Quinn’s eyes.

“Take me.”

Stillness hangs around them, inside them, frozen, before everything happens at once. Quinn’s mouth crashes into Spencer’s as her hand drives downward, taking firm hold around the wanting curve of her body. Spencer cries out as they kiss, while Quinn’s fingers slide easily across her soft, wet skin. Two finger pads find her throbbing clit and push hard, grinding in circles, inscribing the letter “Q” over and over and branding Spencer forever.

Spencer flings her arms around Quinn’s neck and holds on for dear life, absently glad she’d decided to take off her underwear before Quinn arrived in the bathroom, but mostly wondering how in the world someone’s hand can _move_ like that. Quinn breaks their kiss and leans against Spencer’s forehead, breathing heavily across her cheek. The immediate increase between Spencer’s legs indicates a renewed focus, and it’s more than she can handle. She buries her face into Quinn’s neck to muffle her moans, but Quinn is working faster the louder Spencer gets.

Then Quinn stops, just for a moment, and moves her hands to Spencer’s hips, pulling her off the counter and, _thank god_ , holding her upright, as Spencer’s feet are hardly load-bearing anymore. With a swift motion, she drags the rest of the jumpsuit down Spencer’s legs and off, then lifts her back up, kissing her again and pulling Spencer’s ass forward one more time.

Quinn’s hands seem to be everywhere -- on Spencer’s sides and breasts and back and neck, then finally between her legs again, resuming their patterns but now without obstruction. The closer Quinn pulls her, the wider her legs spread against Quinn’s body, and Spencer realizes there is nothing she wouldn’t give Quinn, no part of Quinn she doesn’t want to take in. Their tongues move together as Spencer traces a hand down the strong forearm to place her fingers on Quinn’s, applying even more pressure.

When Quinn uses the added force to drive two fingers deep inside her, Spencer screams.

Quinn grabs a fistful of hair and holds Spencer’s mouth against her neck again, pumping her arm as fast as she can. Her thumb drags back and forth across Spencer’s clit as she moves, and Spencer is hungrily pushing Quinn’s hand deeper, faster, harder. She’s never felt anything like this before. Her body is on fire, sweat running down her back, breaths short and fast, eyes shut tight, muscles clenched as she pants into Quinn’s shoulder.

She’s going to come soon.

That is, if Quinn will let her.

_Oh god._

And then, without a word, Quinn slows her movements and pulls Spencer into a deep, passionate kiss. Spencer pushes hard against the back of Quinn’s hand, wanting somehow for there to be even deeper places to reach, wanting all that Quinn _is_ inside of her. She opens her mouth wider as she presses, taking Quinn in everywhere but still needing more.

But Quinn’s free hand is moving Spencer’s away, and, instead, Quinn gently places Spencer’s hand flat against her own mouth and holds it there for a moment, implying it needs to stay. She spreads Spencer’s legs wider, drawing her nearer to the counter’s edge, and watches her two fingers disappear easily inside Spencer. Quinn’s smiling, almost hungrily, dangerously.

And then Spencer feels Quinn’s tongue against her for the first time.

She falls back, one elbow propped on the counter to hold herself up as she whimpers helplessly into her other hand. Quinn’s lips are sucking hard around her clit as three fingers now thrust into her, and Spencer knows she must be in space after all, because she’s seeing stars.

Her head falls back, still grunting _“Yes”_ and _“Please”_ repeatedly against her palm, and she doesn’t know if it’s sweat or tears running down her face, or both. Quinn drags a hand up Spencer’s stomach and rests it flat between her breasts, digging her nails into the soft flesh there. Spencer somehow finds the strength to pull her head back up and open her eyes, looking down at this scene before her. Quinn’s hand possessively on her body, her other working Spencer so hard, mouth wrapped around Spencer’s most vulnerable skin, and hazel eyes locked on hers.

She comes harder than she ever knew she could.

Burying a high-pitched scream in the crook of her elbow, Spencer’s body tenses as the electric shocks reach all the way down to her toes and explode. Quinn sucks hard on her clit to pull her through the orgasm, then keeps hard pressure with her tongue after Spencer releases, stilling the fingers inside. The hand on her chest is tracing light designs across her breasts, but Spencer’s head is too swimmy to know just how long it’s been doing that. She jolts a few times involuntarily as her muscles reset, but otherwise, she can’t move.

After a minute, Quinn releases the pressure of her tongue and lightly drags it back and forth across the overstimulated skin before standing up. She smiles, quite pleased with herself, it seems, and uses her free hand to pull Spencer upright and meet her lips. Spencer melts into the kiss, humming at how it tastes even better now, which she hadn’t thought possible. The three fingers still inside her aren’t moving, but Spencer’s in no hurry for Quinn to leave. Everything is perfect -- her head spinning with the chemical rush, body flush against Quinn, feeling sated yet truly alive. If this is what sex with a woman is always like -- well, sign Spencer up.

She wraps her arms around Quinn, breaking the kiss to pull her into a hug, when suddenly a deafening _BOOM_ rocks the ground under their feet. Quinn barely stays standing as Spencer lurches forward hard, painfully, kept only on the sink’s edge by the whiplash back. The ship settles and levels itself out, but the girls are shaking, clinging tightly to each other.

“You okay?” Quinn asks, steadying them both.

“What the hell _was_ that? A bomb? Did we crash into something?” With earthquakes off the list, none of the remaining options are all that pleasant.

There’s a loud buzzing sound, and the intercom hisses to life just outside in the hallway. _“Attention inmates, guards, and other vermin,”_ says Sue. _“There is no cause for alarm. The slight disturbance you felt was nothing more than a meteor striking the ship at maximum velocity.”_

“Oh, THAT’S ALL.” says Spencer.

 _“I am sad to report the sole casualty: my ninety-six-ounce protein smoothie, which is now nothing more than a sticky puddle of whey powder and children’s tears on my floor.”_  She pauses and sniffles once, then continues more calmly. _“Fortunately, our stabilizers are in top working condition, which is more than I can say for the rest of you. Please carry on with your pointless, lesbian lives.”_  A final click.

“We should get out of here,” Spencer starts, but Quinn’s eyes are frozen wide. “What?”

“I can’t...um...”

Quinn looks down, and Spencer follows, seeing the toned forearm still between her legs, only...it ends at her wrist.

Spencer’s jaw drops open. “Is your WHOLE HAND in there?!” She’s still numb and tingly and honestly isn’t sure what’s going on down there.

“You slammed into me!”

“So you break my fall by _fisting me?!”_

Quinn stiffens defensively and takes a step back. Well, as far as one can when her hand is up a girl’s vagina. “I didn’t mean to!”

But Spencer isn’t hearing a word Quinn says, because they’re not alone anymore.

A small shadow is moving along the back wall ten feet behind them, silently creeping out of a stall. The blood drains from Spencer’s face as Charlotte scurries into the light and pauses, as if stopping to stare at her prey.

“THERE IT IS!” she shouts, pointing and frantically trying to get her bare feet up on the counter and scaring the shit out of Quinn in the process. “KILL IT! GET IT!”

Quinn jumps and turns but doesn’t move otherwise, searching the room for any sign of a threat and finding none. But then her eyes catch movement, and she relaxes a bit. That is one tiny-ass spider.

“Right there!” Spencer says. “You see it, right?”

“I see it,” Quinn says, all panic dissipated.

Spencer’s only moderately relieved at this -- Yay, she hasn’t been hallucinating, but omg no, _it’s here._ “It’s killing people! Go step on it or something!”

She feels a tug deep in her core, then another.

_That’s weird._

Quinn looks down at her wrist again and groans.

Spencer doesn’t like the sound of that. “What?”

“...I think...I’m stuck.”

“WHAT.”

“I don’t know! I can’t get it out!”

“PULL HARDER.”

“I’m trying!”

“I’m not some Chinese finger trap,” Spencer snaps. “If you got IN, you have to be able to get OUT.” Another strained tug. “UM, OW.”

“You said to pull harder!”

After a few more attempts, Quinn starts to put a foot against the counter for leverage.

“Really?!” Spencer glares.

Quinn is exasperated. She sighs and says, “Look...just relax. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then fucking pick me up and carry me out of here, I don’t care! That thing is going to kill us if we don’t kill it first!” Spencer isn’t taking her eyes off Charlotte, not this time. This bullshit ends _now_.

“I can’t,” Quinn says, “just...hold still so I can adjust my angle.”

It hurts -- the sharp knuckles pulling against her -- but Spencer refuses to die like this, a lesbian puppet, bare-ass on a prison sink in space. She winces and groans, trying to relax her muscles, but she’s just too damn scared.

A distant yet familiar voice echoes outside the bathroom. _“Be ready to beg for it when I get back, girls.”_

“Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit,” Spencer mumbles, trying to crawl backward on the counter, as if her efforts would magically extricate Quinn, or perhaps allow them to hide in thin air in front of a large mirror.

“Hold still!”

But it’s too late. The door swings open, and in walks the owner of a very recognizable pink jumpsuit.

“My, my, my,” she says. “What do we have here?”

Spencer immediately tries to cover herself up, but it’s pointless. The best she can do is curl into a ball with her arms around her knees and her face buried, which does nothing to hide Quinn’s precarious position. In fact, it makes it worse.

Quinn turns sharply and then sighs with an annoyed, _“Fuck.”_

Lucy Fabray takes two steps forward, pauses at a safe distance, and peers conspicuously between Spencer’s feet. “You know, Quinn, in many ancient cultures, it was considered polite to remove one’s hand from a vagina _before_ engaging in conversation with guests.”

Spencer wants to die.

“Go away,” says Quinn.

Lucy pauses, contemplating, then says, “Unless...oh no. Got your hand stuck in the cookie jar, again?”

_Again?!_

“At least it smells better than Play-Doh,” Quinn replies coolly.

Spencer winces. It’s a weird compliment.

Lucy’s head tilts as she considers the moment. “I didn’t think you were finally taking the Fisting class? You really should consider signing up. Your technique needs some work.”

“Says the Queen of Fingerpainting.”

But unlike her counterpart, Lucy isn’t showing any sign that Quinn’s getting under her skin. “You know, if the hand is just lost anyway, there are ways of freeing your arm--”

Quinn points and yells, “Stay the FUCK away from me.”

Spencer doesn’t know what the hell is going on, but she isn’t looking up. Maybe if she keeps hiding, it’ll all just disappear and she’ll wake up back in Rosewood. She’s mortified, more than she ever has been in her life, and Charlotte has to be at least halfway across the floor by now, poised to kill her on the spot.

From the sound of things, this banter isn’t stopping anytime soon.

Spencer lifts her head enough to peek a glance at the monster’s last known location but sees only grimey tiles.

_Shit! Where did she go?!_

_Okay, fuck this._

“Look, there’s a spider in here,” Spencer says to Lucy. “Somewhere over there. And we’d really appreciate if you’d go kill it.” She tries to keep her voice even but firm; the last thing she needs is someone else with influence thinking she’s crazy.

But Lucy doesn’t budge, except to gasp, looking deeply offended. “Spiders are our friends! I would _never_ hurt an animal!”

Quinn balks, “But you’ll kill forty people with a chainsaw.”

The blood leaves Spencer’s face again as she pulls her body in tighter. “WHAT?!”

Fortunately, Lucy ignores her. Blushing, she waves a hand as if it’s no big deal. “Thirty-seven. People aren’t _animals_ , Quinn.”

“YES, THEY ARE?” Spencer blurts out, then immediately regrets it and buries her face in her knees again. If she closes her eyes and wishes really, really hard, maybe she’ll disappear and none of this will actually be happening.

She can hear Quinn laugh and say quietly to Lucy, “ _You would think that.”_

Lifting her elbow slightly, Spencer peeks out at the staredown happening in the Not O.K. At All Corral. Even with Quinn just in profile, Spencer’s struck by how eerie the resemblance is between the two girls. She hasn’t seen them in proximity before to analyze it, but, wow. They really are like carbon copies, just completely different flavors. If that were a thing.

The balled fist of rage inside her – Quinn’s literal one, that is – moves ever so slightly against her G-spot, sending an unintended jolt through Spencer. For a moment, her mind wanders again to the thought of having _two_ Quinns, or this alternate version of that.

_Oh god._

Through her peephole, Lucy’s eyes find hers, and it snaps Spencer out of her daydream. She turns her face away again, shutting her eyes tight, and fidgets to reposition herself in her new peak level of embarrassment. Deep inside, she feels Quinn’s hand turn a bit more freely than before.

 _“Quite the screamer,”_  Lucy says to Quinn. _“No wonder you like her.”_

Spencer looks up at that. “Excuse me?”

“Leave us alone!” Quinn shouts back angrily. “Go pee somewhere else!”

 _...Oh crap. Now_ I _have to pee._

“But I want to help!” Lucy says in the same saccharin tone she uses while teaching. It’s almost painfully sincere. “I can’t just _leave_ you like this. You might miss dinner. You’re probably hungry after all this fun.” She bites her lip, trying not to laugh at the joke she’s about to make. “Even if Spencer’s looking a little full.”

“Get out before I stab you in the eye.” Quinn is not kidding even a little bit.

Lucy laughs good-heartedly. “With what, your other hand? I recommend focusing on penetrating one girl at a time, while you're still learning.” Lucy turns her attention to Spencer, as if she’s Exhibit A. “The real question is, does Spencer want me to leave?”

“Uh…” Spencer looks at Quinn, whose eyebrows are prompting the obvious _“YES!”_ , but she honestly isn’t sure. As mortifying as this is, maybe they need Lucy’s help to carry her to the infirmary or something.

Before she can say more, Lucy takes a cautious step forward. “I think you need me. I think _Spencer_ needs me.”

_Oh god._

_What is it about that_ voice _?_

Quinn bites back, “Get the _fuck_ out of here, I swear to god.”

“I bet I can help solve your little problem. I’m very good with my hands, you know. Spencer’s seen it” -- and she looks at Spencer now, speaking one word at a time -- “how the slick, wet paint slides beneath my fingers, moving faster and faster in perfect circles until I can feel the friction building. I just love that combination of wetness and heat, don’t you?”

_Oh god. Oh god._

Quinn looks too dumbstruck to verbalize a retort. Her face isn’t moving, but her hand is.

“Or driving my fingers deep into a soft, moist mound of clay,” Lucy continues, “feeling it warm all around me before I press it _hard_ to bend it to my will. You know I like to take my time shaping it to my innermost desires. I can make it do whatever I want. Make it _be_ whatever I want. I can make it _come alive_.”

_Oh god. Oh god. Oh god._

“You know, maybe I teach a class not just because I like showing others how to use their bodies, or even because I want more time to practice my own skills...I just want someone to watch me while I do it.”

_OH GOD. OH GOD. OH GOD. OH GOD._

Quinn’s had enough. “Okay, THAT’S IT --” and rears back to punch Lucy Fabray in the fucking face...not even realizing her hand has just slid right out of Spencer like the damn Excalibur sword. It’s quite pruned and still a bit contorted.

Lucy probably deserves to be punched with that.

But Quinn just looks at Spencer, quite confused, and Spencer doesn’t know what she could possibly say here. She rushes to close herself off once and for all, crossing her ankles and pulling her knees to her chest protectively as Quinn narrows her eyes.

Lucy gives a small laugh and says, “Happy to help.” She’s just about to turn around and leave but then, leaning in toward Quinn, she adds, “Be sure to wash that before dinner.” And with that, she casually walks out of the bathroom. There’s a squeak and a thud as the door closes, then a long silence.

“I would like to leave now,” Spencer says quietly.

But Quinn’s not going anywhere. “What the hell just happened?” she says, pointing her wrinkled hand toward the door.

Spencer rolls her eyes and climbs off the counter to pick up her discarded jumpsuit. “I don’t know,” she says, not convincing at all. “You were stuck, then you weren’t. Hooray.”

Quinn’s eyes harden, staring at Spencer in disbelief. “She turns you on.”

“What? No, she doesn’t,” Spencer dismisses. She’s looking around the floor and above her head for Charlotte. While Spencer can’t escape the bathroom with her dignity, she might still escape it with her life. With a shiver, Spencer shakes out her clothing, jumps up and down on it, and slams it against the counter a few times for good measure.

Quinn, meanwhile, couldn’t care less about a damn spider. “She said all that shit, and it actually turned you on.” Her tone implies she might find it hilarious if she wasn’t so pissed off.

“And that’s surprising?!” Spencer says angrily, finally turning to face Quinn. “SHE LOOKS AND SOUNDS JUST LIKE YOU.”

Spencer zips up the jumpsuit halfway, sleeves dangled loosely around her waist, and sets to retrieving her sneakers and her one and only Secret from Victoria.

“And yet I stayed stuck until she arrived. Funny.”

Spencer really doesn’t have time for this jealousy crap, which is quickly ruining what had been the best sex of her life. “Just...let me get my stuff and we’ll get out of here, okay? Talk later.” She carefully approaches the last stall and checks in all directions before stepping inside.

Quinn crosses her arms and leans against the sticky counter. “You put your clothes in the toilet?”

“Under. I couldn’t just leave them ou --” she starts, leaning down to grab her shoes and...thin air. _“-- No.”_

Quinn doesn’t respond.

“They were right here!” Spencer stares at the yellow tile, hoping her blue panties will magically materialize before her very eyes. They were right here on top of her shoes, she swears it. Giving the Keds a good shake and slipping her feet inside, she comes barreling out of the stall and into the neighboring one, then back out and into the third. “I have no underwear. I’m in prison, and I have no underwear.”

“You sure you didn't give them to Lucy?” Quinn offers under her breath.

But even as a joke, it doesn’t make sense that Lucy would have them, as she was on the opposite side of the bathroom the whole time. _But nobody else came in or out, so who could’ve taken them?_

_...No._

“Oh my god.” Spencer freezes, then looks left, right, left, down, up, right, and behind her again. “Charlotte.”

Quinn just starts walking toward the door.

“THAT BITCH TOOK MY PANTIES,” Spencer shouts. She looks at the walls again, zoning out in blind rage. “I’m gonna kill her.”

“You do that.” Quinn says without looking back.

Spencer can’t believe what she’s seeing. “Wait, you’re not gonna help me? She practically came after us!”

Quinn pauses and turns, squinting through her messy pink bangs. “I don’t plan on dropping _my_ panties for anyone anytime soon, so I should be fine.” A pointed glare. “Guess you can’t say the same.”

“Come on. That’s not fair.” Spencer wants to shout, _“I just let you fuck me on a bathroom sink, for christ’s sake!”_   but doesn’t.

Any emotion on Quinn’s face fades. “Nothing’s fair here.”

And with that, she takes the final few steps to the door, leaving Spencer topless and commando and rejected and sore and feeling not at all like this afternoon turned out the way it was supposed to.


	28. Shark Week, the Second One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

_It’s not like this day could possibly get any worse_ , Spencer tells herself as she follows Paulie into the Mess Hall for dinner two hours later, walking a bit gingerly and hoping no one notices. She can’t tell what the entrée is supposed to be from here. Something suspect. Spencer peers over at Lexa’s tray, trying to get a closer look, and suddenly comes face-to-face with Santana Lopez, one of Lucy’s flunkies. 

Spencer’s seen her many times before, but they’ve not yet spoken, so she’s taken quite off-guard by how forward Santana is -- slinging an arm around Spencer’s neck like they’re old friends. That, or she’s about to kill her and just wants to be chummy first.

“So, Shit-mess,” Santana starts. _Oh, great._ “I hear I have you to thank.” She’s much too close to Spencer’s face for comfort, like she might lick her cheek or something. It’s fucking creepy.

Spencer stares forward, and tries to subtly shrug Santana’s arm off. “Um…okay.” She twitches and flinches as Santana tightens the lock around her neck.

“Lucy was in _such_ a good mood after classes. Something about ‘feeling inspired to teach a new student her best tricks.’ Which she then demonstrated on me.” Santana is clearly trying to brag, lucky girl that she feels she is. “She almost had _me_ ready to call mercy, and I’m the Allen County bedroom rodeo champion. You must’ve really gotten her going.” She leans in right by Spencer’s ear and whispers, _“Thanks.”_

Spencer tries again to shove her off, because this moment couldn’t possibly be any more uncomfortable. It’s bad enough she feels every slight shift of her uniform against her bare and slightly sore lady parts. Now, the added nausea from hearing the inner details of Lucy Fabray’s sex life, after enduring the horrific embarrassment of her own. The list of Awful Things About Today continues to grow.

“Um...I didn’t…” Spencer starts, but the elbow around her neck tightens, and she can barely breathe.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, Hastings,” Santana smirks. “Or should I say... _Fistings_?” She slips away, grinning like the Cheshire Cat and leaving Spencer stunned.

Before she can come up with a clever retort -- or anything at all --  Spencer feels a slap on the back that nearly knocks her into Paulie.

“Nice work!”

 _Oh god._ It’s Graham. Yet again complimenting Spencer’s failed sexual exploits.

 _Why does this keep happening?_ _Or, maybe Graham doesn’t know? Maybe she liked my Taxidermy project, all five minutes I spent working on it. It’s possible._

Graham walks backward for a few steps to look Spencer in the eye as she says, “You and Quinn should stop by my class next week and give us some pointers.” Then, with a wicked wink, she turns around and continues on to find her seat.

An image of the course listing flashes before Spencer’s eyes, and she sees very clearly which one is assigned to Graham.

_Fisting._

“Oh, that’s right!” Santana bellows from across the room at Lucy’s table. “I meant your secret’s safe with me and a few of my closest friends!” She motions all around her, indicating basically the entire prison.

Their laughter echoes in Spencer’s ears as she inches forward in line. _Please let the ground open and swallow me whole_ , she thinks. Or, more accurately, _let a hole in the hull suck me out into the cold void of space_. At least it’s quiet out there.

She passes by her old cell’s table, and Mack is so bug-eyed with loathing that Spencer’s sure she’d turn to stone if she looked directly at her. (She’d take the easy out right now if she thought it would work.) As she walks on, she hears Mack growl, “No. Don’t even think I’m gonna let you come near me with that hand after it’s been in Hastings’ vag.”

Spencer can’t see or hear Quinn’s response, but maybe that’s for the best, anyway. She makes her way to her seat and sits, wincing a bit but trying to hide it. The food isn’t much better than the company, and the patty that just looked a bit off from afar is pretty terrifying close-up. It’s large, oddly lumpy, and covered in some kind of sauce-like substance that’s more translucent than gravy really should be.

Across the cafeteria, Jessica Huang’s voice carries over the noise. _“THIS FOOD IS MADE OF GARBAGE!”_

Spencer arches an eyebrow at Paulie, who’s halfway through her personal slab of garbage food. “What crawled on your tray and died?” Spencer asks.

Paulie shrugs and says, “BSM,” before taking another bite.

Spencer can’t have heard that right. “The whips and slaves thing?” It seems unlikely that the kitchen doubles as a sex dungeon.

“Big Sweaty Meat, duh,” Paulie says, chewing with her mouth open.

_Oh, well, of course that’s what it is. How silly of me not to have known that._

Spencer carves out a small fraction of the patty with her fork and brings it to her mouth, despite her brain fighting her every step of the way. It tastes even worse than she expects, and she only makes it through a few bites before giving up, pushing her tray aside but not far away enough.

She used to have a different life, right? Long ago, before everything turned to shit? Spencer really wants to believe she did, but it feels so far away, like a dream.

“Okay,” she begins, angling toward Paulie, “You work with this Martha woman, right? Please verify there’s an actual person back there, because this --” she gestures to her tray “-- is frightening. There has to be something fit for human consumption.”

Paulie grins as she takes another bite. “You’re funny, New Girl. I like you. It’s too bad that pretty face is gonna get scraped off with a cheese grater.”

“Mmhmm,” Dark Willow agrees somberly.

 But that’s not why Spencer’s eyes are doubled in size. “There’s _cheese_ back there?!”

Paulie laughs once. “Go on, tell her what you just said. It’s your funeral.”

Spencer glances over toward the kitchen and almost considers it. She’s not going to starve to death without a fight.

“There are some scary people up here,” Paulie continues. “But that Martha Slewgurt” – Paulie points toward the kitchen with her fork – “just might be the most terrifying of all.”

“Martha _Slewgurt_?” Spencer asks. “That’s someone’s actual name.”

“What kind of name is ‘Spencer Hastings’?” Dark Willow mocks.

“That doesn’t sound made up to you?” Spencer asks. “ _Slewgurt_?” Her voice is louder than she means it to be, and a few heads turn a few tables down, then laugh like they’re about to watch someone get a beatdown.

“She’s gonna hear you!” Paulie asks in a hushed whisper, looking toward the kitchen to see if a monster is emerging.

“I’m saying it sounds like a fake name, like…” Spencer’s brain stops for a moment. Or maybe the room stops around her instead as her brain connects some dots. “Like someone’s doing a bad job of hiding who they are.” She looks back toward the kitchen and opens her mouth, but the words don’t come out right away. “You don’t think…that’s not…Martha _Stewart_ back there.” She regrets it as soon as she’s said it. “Because that would be crazy. Right?”

“I told you like six times, New Girl,” Paulie says, “It’s Martha _Slewgurt_.”

“I KNOW.” Spencer’s gonna lose her damn mind if she hears that word one more time. “And I’m saying, what if it’s really Martha Stewart. But I guess she doesn’t want people to know it’s her and that’s why she changed her name.”

Dark Willow raises an eyebrow. “Like, Martha Stewart the famous cook and ruler of a home decoration empire? _That_ Martha Stewart?”

Spencer forces down another bite of BSM. “Makes a lot more sense than someone named Martha Slewgurt cooking for us.”

“But Martha Stewart’s not a criminal,” Dark Willow says, confused.

“Yes, she is!” Spencer says, again a little too loudly. “She was convicted for lying to the SEC about a stock trade. She was supposed to lose over forty-thousand dollars, but she got some inside information and --”

Dark Willow rolls her eyes and sighs, “Bored now.”

Spencer raises her eyebrows. “I’m just saying, they sent her to jail. Maybe they sent her here.”

Dark Willow looks toward the kitchen for a moment, considering the possibility. “I used to love her holiday specials, back before I was evil. My mom and I would watch them every year and tape them so we could try out her recipes. Once, Xander tried to make her cranberry popcorn balls, but we ended up spending Christmas with the Sunnydale Fire Department. They were very nice." Dark Willows takes a breath and sighs, "She always makes it look so easy on TV!”

“You’re both crazier than River, here,” Paulie says, chomping heartily on a big bite of meat and nodding at their cellmate.

River’s BSM patty has been cut into dozens of small, precise pieces and stacked into a tower that must be over a foot high. She gives a small shrug at the comment, then stands slightly to reach the top-most piece of the tower with her mouth, carefully eating it off without toppling the whole thing down.

“I guess I’ll see for myself,” Spencer says. She finishes the last of her cup of water and sets it down on the tray. “I’ll be right back.” Grabbing her dirty dishes, she makes her way toward the drop-off bucket. The kitchen is open and exposed, but Spencer can’t see anyone back there despite the noise of clanking pots in the far back area, out of sight. She tries to peek around the corner, but she’s holding up the line and looking like a creeper. All she needs is confirmation that she’s right, and then she’ll go back to staying out of everyone’s way. 

At the same time, how _could_ it be Martha Stewart? It’s a billion-to-one chance. She tries to ignore the pain in her stomach muscles as she leans hard against the counter, trying to see around the industrial stove. Her feet leave the ground, and she almost topples over into the kitchen before Big Boo grabs her by the uniform and pulls her back.

 “Whoa there, Thin Mint,” Big Boo says, helping her find stable ground. “Save some for tomorrow.”

Spencer feels sillier by the minute. Why did she even suggest this? There are a hundred reasons why THE Martha Stewart wouldn’t be here on the _Uterius_.

_She’s a talented chef!_

_She’s rich and famous!_

_She’s not a lesbian!_

_Well._

But one thing Spencer’s damn sure about: the actual living and breathing Martha Stewart wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere near something called Big Sweaty Meat.

_...Right?_

“Told you,” Paulie says as Spencer sits back down. But before she can respond, the intercom crackles to life.

**_Plink, plink._ **

A collective wall of sound erupts in the Mess Hall, everything from frustrated groans to outright anger. Any further plinking is drowned out by the noise, but Sue’s familiar announcement eventually rings out to confirm the inevitable. Shark Week has returned.

Near the back of the cafeteria, Vasquez stands and holds her plastic spork out like a weapon. “WHO DID IT!”

One of Vee’s crew yells, “If you wanted to bleed, I’d just CUT YOU! Damn!”

The room quickly turns on itself. Food flies over Spencer’s head as the crowd dissolves into utter chaos, and she hears the _plop_ of a BSM patty hitting Alice, the Zombies instructor, in the face nearby. Kat pelts another one over to the far end of the Mess Hall, arm pumping in celebration as it lands right on Violet’s tattooed breast. Spencer can’t tell if these women are trying to blame each other for the upcoming lockdown or just getting their last joyride in first. The party’s quickly shut down, though, with a blaring horn and Boomer banging loudly on the nearest table. Part of Spencer wanted to see just how it was all going to play out. Maybe a food fight would draw out the mystery chef? But she’s mostly glad for a reprieve while she’s still clean. It’s been a fucking long enough day already.

And then she feels a soggy _thud_ on her back.

_Of course._

“CRAZY EYES,” Boomer shouts. “KNOCK IT OFF.”

Spencer doesn’t know anyone named Crazy Eyes and sure as hell doesn’t want to, but then she hears, “For your girl, Cauliflower!”

_Oh. Yes, hi, Suzanne._

“You tell her that’s from me!”

Spencer’s brow furrows, but she doesn’t turn around to engage. Has she unwittingly become part of a Suzanne/Quinn love triangle, of all things? Because that’s exactly what she needs right now. Or, wait, does Suzanne think Spencer’s with one of her new cellmates now?

Whatever the hell is going on, she needs to get out of here. There’s a wet spot between her shoulder blades and a room full of prisoners laughing at her, and Spencer just wants to go _home._ She gets up and hurries toward the door with her head down. The argument with Paulie can keep until later. She’ll check the office files for _Slewgurt, Martha_ next time she gets a chance. Though, wouldn’t she have seen it by now?

The guards start ushering the prisoners back to their cells, leaving behind a particularly gross, half-eaten mess strewn across the tables. A thin layer of slime now covers the floor, making a lovely _splick_ noise with every step. Spencer sees Aphasia slip on the mess and almost fall, but Quinn quickly stabilizes her.

Spencer catches Quinn’s eye for a moment. They seem to be the only two not freaking out or exhibiting any emotion at all. But Quinn pushes through the herd to get away and is soon lost in a sea of black jumpsuits and oily hair.

Spencer is the first one back to cell 11, and she climbs up to her bunk to think about the new implications of Shark Week. She’s not on this cycle yet, thankfully -- she still has no underwear. So, that’s a win, but it’s the only one coming to mind. What about when the gravity goes out tonight? They don’t have seat belts in here, and there’s no Quinn to hold her close and breathe softly against her neck and make her feel safe. That’s the one thing Spencer misses the most. If she’d known that would be the only time they had together...

But then Spencer pushes past the memory of lips and tongues and hands, and she remembers the entire reason she was in Quinn’s bunk in the first place.

Charlotte.

That bitch killed Jenny Schecter, and she killed Aeryn Sun and probably Stacey and Alex whats-her-face, too. Was it a coincidence that Alex went missing during the last Shark Week? What about the others? And how is Spencer supposed to protect herself from being next with nobody in her corner?

She spends the next several minutes scrawling possible ways to kill a spider in blue on the near wall. For whatever reason, Spencer doesn’t think something as simple as stepping on Charlotte will do the trick. Better to be prepared for war. She keeps writing. At one point, Dark Willow asks what she’s doing, but Spencer answers with an unintelligible grunt and adds “fireballs” to the list. Thinking back to the first day of Funhouse and Dark Willow’s nostalgia for pets, Spencer only hopes she doesn’t share Lucy’s pro-life views on the entire non-human animal kingdom.

 _Speaking of: Tiny hammers._ She puts a star next to it for her own nostalgic reasons.

Spencer completes her mental tour of the prison, having searched for artillery of any kind, and is now back where she started. She leans back to examine her first draft. It isn’t very long, and it reads more like a garage sale listing than the arsenal from Clue. But it makes Spencer feel a bit safer and in control all the same. She's included things like _a trophy_ (from Sue’s office, maybe?) and _a shovel_ (Aphasia? Because, why not?) and Boomer’s taser, if she can get her hands on it. Spencer doesn’t know if it could even latch onto a spider, but she will zap the fucking hell out of Charlotte if it can.

She loses herself in a momentary train of thought, imagining eight little legs trembling and sizzling as the tiniest of screams reaches her ears, and Spencer wonders what her life has become.

****************

She wakes the next morning not remembering how she managed to get to sleep. In fact, Spencer can’t think about anything except, _Oh god, I’m going to puke_.

She rolls over, head aching as the room spins with her, and she somehow dismounts from the bed and collapses into a heap. Dragging herself toward the toilet, she half-expects it to be full of brown chunks already, but then remembers Mack’s not here. Still, the very idea of Pruno is enough to empty Spencer's stomach quite completely.

She retches loudly and painfully, wondering why the hell this is happening to her. Spencer’s first instinct is to blame the Big Sweaty Meat, but would two bites do all of this? She looks over to her cellmates to see if they’re suffering the same fate.

That’s when she sees the web.

Spencer scrambles to her unsteady feet, a chorus of _“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck”_ echoing on repeat in her pounding head. Stumbling forward, she grabs the frame of Paulie’s bunk to take a closer look.

Paulie’s very empty bunk.

**_GIRLY-GIRL SUCKY-SUCK_ **

“Not as impressive as the last one,” mumbles a voice right next to Spencer’s ear, making her jump.

“You can see that?” she asks River. She’s suddenly feeling much more awake.

River reaches a hand out and traces a finger over the first G. “Written on air.”

“Where’s Paulie?” Spencer asks.

She shakes her head almost imperceptibly, like a twitch, or a robot glitching. “Absent.”

_Yes, thank you._

But then River adds, “Floated away,” now sounding higher than a hippie at a Grateful Dead concert, and Spencer goes into panic mode.

“Did the gravity go out last night?” She asks, mind reeling. Did she just hover above her bed for a while and then fall back onto it without waking up? She’s starting to wish she had a bottom bunk again. It could be a miracle she didn't fall five feet down to the floor.

“We're all floating.” River finds a very interesting molecule of air to stare intensely at.

Spencer’s tired of this already. “It's a yes or no question.”

River looks at her blankly, then examines the lengths of her fingers as if she's never seen her hand before. “You snore.”

Spencer stands and gets in River’s face to show her she’s for real. “Tell me about when this happened before,” she says, pointing to the web. “What did it say?” 

“Words. Thin and frail, like bones,” River says, looking at the web now, too.

Spencer grabs River’s shoulders and says, _“Did you see the spider?”_

Looking wistfully off to the side, she quietly says, “Jenny.”

Spencer's eyes go wide. “Jenny was a spider?!”

River gives her the most patronizing look Spencer's ever seen.

_Oh. Right._

“Jenny Schecter,” Spencer starts again, shaking it off. “That girl who disappeared. She saw it?”

“She taught a class. Empty chairs don't write.”

“Yeah, I kn--”

“And then Elizabeth came.”

Spencer's fairly certain she hasn't heard of any prisoners by that name. “Who?”

River pauses and takes a breath, as if she's about to lose her trademark even keel. “The spider.” Spencer's clearly getting on her last nerve.

“The same spider that killed her,” Spencer says.

River furrows her brow and dismisses it outright. “Unfounded.”

“It wrote _‘I killed Jenny Schecter’_ in a web,” Spencer fumes. “I saw it. So did they.” She points to next door. “That seems pretty founded to me.”

River slips into La La Land for a minute, presumably thinking this over, then climbs up to her bunk in one smooth motion that Spencer finds unnervingly graceful. Reaching under her mattress, River pulls out a brown, thin, leather-bound book and holds it out. Spencer just stares at it for a moment, not moving, trying to guess what this magical item could possibly be. Hopefully not more smut.

“Take it,” River adds, shortly.

Spencer opens it and sees it’s a journal. A very detailed, personal account of a victim's life in space prison. Excitedly, she asks, “This was hers?” 

 _Holy new evidence, Batman._ It’s clearly well-worn and must be at least fifty pages. This could open all kinds of doors. At the same time, Spencer’s more than a little jealous that this dead woman had a whole notebook and a ballpoint pen when Spencer’s been begging for book covers and old highlighters.

But anyway.

Spencer takes in the possibilities, overwhelmed, and it gives her flashbacks to when they found Alison’s journal back in Rosewood. With the pounding in her head, the memories move like a viscous liquid, blurry and faded. But those pages revealed dark clues that pointed them in scary new directions. Something like this is a window into the mind of a dead girl, for better or worse, and it’s important to keep it out of the wrong hands. If someone like Sue...

Spencer meets River’s eyes again. “Why do _you_ have this?” It's a fair question, considering this cell wasn't Jenny's final destination.

“I know many secrets,” River says. “I keep them safe.” When that vague answer doesn’t seem to be enough for Spencer, River blinks and admits flatly, “I traded my bra for it.”

That rings a bell. Spencer remembers Aphasia saying something about River having ‘her book’ the day she first arrived. Was this it? This feels like Spencer’s first big break in weeks. She almost asks, _“Do you know where my panties are?”_   but that would probably be pushing it.

The bed behind her rumbles as Dark Willow wakes up groggily and slurs, “Whuss goin’ on?”

“Paulie’s gone,” Spencer says.

“Ah, shit.” Dark Willow rolls back over to face the wall, sounding like she, too, is battling a migraine from hell. “Get Boomer,” she mumbles.

Spencer shudders at the very mention of her. “Doesn’t she ever take a day off?” She starts climbing up to her bed with the journal. If she has to deal with Boomer today, she’s going to do it from a safe distance. It takes some extra time and effort to get there safely without motion sickness. River, meanwhile, is sitting crisscross on her bed and doesn’t seem to be the least bit panicked or ill. Spencer would love to know what that feels like. She pulls herself up the rest of the way and steadies her hand on the wall. From this angle, she can see a small puddle of vomit on the end of River’s bed. It’s oddly reassuring.

A long, good nap sounds nice right about now, and Spencer’s eyelids are heavy. But Paulie’s probably dead, there’s now a _fifth_ possible victim, and someone else besides her can see the cryptic messages, so there’s no time to lose. She gathers all her strength and yells into the corridor to draw the guard over, but fortunately, Buffy’s the one on duty.

“Our cellmate Paulie is missing,” Spencer says urgently as the blonde approaches. “We woke up and she was gone. I think she was taken. Who was on guard last night?”

Buffy peers curiously at the empty bunk but doesn’t appear to be in any hurry to open the door and investigate further. “Will?” she asks over Spencer shoulder.

“Yep,” Dark Willow mumbles loudly into her pillow without looking up. “Gone.”

That seems to be good enough for Buffy. “I’ll tell Sue,” she says matter-of-factly and starts to walk away.

“That’s it?” Spencer protests. A note on the warden's desk is hardly an adequate response from the so-called security force. Isn’t there some kind of emergency code for this? All staff on high alert or something? A manhunt, perhaps?

“Good work, Lassie,” Buffy says enthusiastically with two thumbs up, walking backwards. She turns to continue down the corridor without another word.

Spencer’s pretty sure she can hear Mack laughing from next door.

_Bitch._

Spencer’s isn’t about to sit and wait for the inquisition squad that’s never coming. The very least she owes Paulie is to try. Since they’re on lockdown, she’s got nothing but time to sit and work on the case. And something tells her Jenny Schecter’s personal notes are a veritable goldmine of information.

For the first time in a month, Spencer has something to read that’s not vintage pornography. Beautiful, glorious day. She opens the cover and takes a deep breath. Two points make a line, but three points make a pattern. If Paulie’s already lost, Spencer still has four weeks to figure out how to stop Charlotte before someone else dies.

At least now she has a starting place.


	29. Dear Diary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Jenny Schecter’s diary contains the hideously verbose ramblings of a lesbian madwoman who is  _way_ too full of herself. Anecdotes and opinions about Christmas, feminism, bees, birth control, poetry, Thai food, adultery, art, living in LA, ex-girlfriends, books, healthcare -- you name it. Some of it is coherent, some not. But overall, it’s a very detailed, very pretentious account of Jenny’s superior (yet incredibly _boring_ ) life.

Thankfully, it gets better about ten pages in because, sure enough, there are scattered mentions of a spider that Jenny calls “Elizabeth” and a writing class that Spencer assumes must be that Pussy thing. _(I really, really hate that word.)_ A new pattern emerges of drawings of words in webs with scribbled essays beneath them, but nothing seems too threatening or like it could relate to the killings. In fact, the only things dying around here, according to Jenny, are some of Idgie’s bees, when the spider can catch them, maggots from the kitchen food _(????)_ , and Jenny’s will to live.

At the bottom of page twelve, Spencer parses the scrawled sentence, _“We boasted to live like kings, she and I, and feasted upon stolen treasures, but the jar is now as empty as the well of my hopes.”_

Spencer rolls her eyes. _Good lord, this girl is dramatic._

_Wait..._

_Aphasia’s bug jar!_

_Charlotte WAS eating them. Ha!_

_…oh god, Jenny wasn’t eating them too, was she?_

Spencer prays there was a bag of M&Ms in there as well.

And now she wants chocolate.

Moving on.

There’s more complaining about overall prison conditions and an essay about the lack of rigorous creative and educational opportunities in the so-called curriculum. Spencer nods along, strangely pleased to have found a like mind on this point, even a dead one. This place makes Rosewood Community College look like Stanford.

Though, it can’t be good for Spencer that she and Jenny Schecter keep having more and more in common. Serial killers have types, and what if _she_ is Charlotte’s? Spencer’s heart plummets as she realizes Paulie’s a young, long-haired brunette, too. _Shit._ She’ll bet anything that Stacey, Aeryn, and Vause were as well.

At that sobering thought, Spencer takes a deep breath and reads on, pushing through the exhaustion and headache. Twenty minutes later, Jenny’s bitching about none other than Stacey Merkin, providing details that prove they knew -- and hated -- each other back on Earth, before they were incarcerated.

 _That’s_ new information.

The wheels turn in Spencer’s mind, assimilating the data, fitting the pieces together. The detailed accounts of what Stacey did to her – buttering her up for information about her book, only to turn around and write a scathing review of it – paint a truly ugly picture of a nasty feud. _(Jenny got revenge by seducing Stacey’s girlfriend?_ _Well, then.)_ Spencer doesn’t know why Jenny was imprisoned in the first place, but if she killed back home…who’s to say she wouldn’t do it again?

 _Do I have it all wrong? Did_ Jenny _kill Stacey?_

Spencer’s theory flips over on itself as she considers this new angle. After all, anything’s possible in here, she’s learning. Maybe Jenny took out her nemesis and bragged about it to the spider, who wrote “Fuck You Stacey Merkin” as a show of support. All this time, Spencer’s been thinking about Jenny the Victim without even considering the angles of Jenny the Criminal.

It’s more than a little unsettling that anyone and everyone around here can be – and probably already _is_ – a murderer.

_Aww, just like back home._

Paragraph after paragraph of the crazy backstory makes Spencer’s pulse quicken, as it has to be leading to a revealing climax, but then it seems to end with no resolution. Or, at least, not the evidence Spencer’s seeking.

_“I speak daily of this loathing to my dearest Elizabeth, but it brings me little comfort. There’s nothing a mere spider can do to cleanse the darkness in my past. Stacey remains an unhealed wound, a thorn in the flesh of my memories. Together we will rot like discarded peels in this bin of sin and shame. What’s done is done.”_

It’s hardly a confession of murder or intent. If anything, it sounds like coming to prison finally closed that chapter in Jenny’s mind. After all that build-up, Jenny was just a madwoman venting to her pet. The thought brings up a flash of Lucy Fabray and her “cat,” and Spencer shakes it off.

If the Stacey/Jenny chapter really was over, is it a coincidence both women ended up dead?

_“What’s done is done…”_

_Okay, but what if it wasn’t?_

Could that mean Jenny told her little friend to go kill her enemy, finishing her once and for all? Stacey, ‘rotting’ as a corpse, and Jenny, living with her sin? It could fit their story. From what Spencer’s reading, Jenny certainly seems vindictive enough to put out the hit, and “Elizabeth” sounds doting enough to comply.

Maybe Spencer will test her theory by asking Charlotte to kill Mack. It’s a nice thought.

If Jenny was the one calling the shots about Stacey's murder, then what about the other one after her own death? There isn't a simple one-size-fits-all answer for these five disappearances.

... _Right?_

But if the spider’s intelligent enough to take directions, Spencer has to entertain the notion that Charlotte can make decisions for herself. In which case…

What if dear little “Elizabeth” sought out revenge on behalf of beloved owner? _Are spiders capable of that level of cognizance and emotion?_ That’s some seriously advanced shit. Sure, before now Spencer’s been convinced Charlotte is responsible for these deaths, but it was for primal reasons. Basic survival. Food. Maybe territoriality. Not, _“You were mean to my friend.”_  It feels more than a little crazy personifying a spider to this degree, and Spencer’s not sure it’s a path she wants to follow. Even without this emotional layer, the Killer Spider Theory already cost her three allies, two uncomfortable interrogations, and a cell transfer.

It’s now feeling a lot like lose/lose: Either there’s a calculating monster plotting the murder of its enemies, or there's an eight-legged mercenary killing on command. Both versions have successfully managed to evade capture _and_ taunt the witnesses, all without creating any hard evidence or interest from the authorities.

And, whatever happened to Stacey, Spencer still can’t explain how Jenny ended up dead a few short months later. Did Charlotte turn right around to kill her, too? … _Do spiders even understand the concept of loose ends_?

Spencer immediately cringes, falling victim to her own wordplay. _Of course they do._ If anyone wants things tied up neatly, it’s a web-making, prey-spinning predator.

She clearly hasn’t been giving this bitch enough credit.

 _But, wait, no_ \-- Wouldn’t it have been easier for Charlotte to just let the authorities punish Jenny – the obvious suspect -- for Stacey’s murder? Eliminating Jenny would only draw more attention or create confusion. There must be something else at play, some piece of the puzzle Spencer isn’t seeing. Did Charlotte think Jenny would turn _her_ in to the authorities, so she struck first? The thought of a tiny spider in miniature handcuffs is both adorable and absurd. And, if Charlotte didn’t trust Jenny in the first place, why would she have killed for her? It just isn’t adding up.

Reviewing her mental evidence list, Spencer realizes she doesn’t have any hard proof that the spider _did_ kill Jenny Schecter. And of course, there isn’t going to be any in this journal, either. The yellow string “confession” web was probably just Mack fucking with her again. But Jenny’s still dead either way, and this “airlocked” line everyone keeps feeding her has always reeked of bullshit, even though it’s clear Sue knows more about these deaths than she’s letting on.

And then, in a moment of true space dementia, Spencer has a deeply unsettling thought.

_What if Charlotte is working for **Sue**?_

What if the warden was sending Charlotte out to do recon in the prison, to find out who was plotting a mutiny and deserved to die? It seems like the kind of thing you’d ask a guard to do, but whatever. They’re in space; all bets are off. It’s much easier to eavesdrop when you’re the size of a quarter. Sue could use her tiny killing machine and blame it on inmate violence, which is expected in a prison, anyway. It’s kind of brilliant.

But, _wait_ – Mack said if the authorities were killing people, they'd use it to keep the population in line. Why, then, did Sue deny that anything like that was going on? Maybe she feared Spencer might figure out her methods and expose them, or worse – kill the spider on sight. So, Sue sent her to Umbridge, which ultimately got her transferred, breaking Spencer away from her only allies. She must have been on the right track.

_Is Umbridge in on the scam? What about the guards? Am I just another in a long line of girls they’ve put through these motions when we got too close? Is this why Jenny died? Did she figure it out, too?_

Spencer's mind turns and turns. There's excitement in connecting lines and building leads as the pieces interlock, bringing her ever closer to the truth, but the joy is quickly replaced by fear. Sue clearly has eyes and ears all over the prison, even in Spencer’s own bed, and she suddenly feels a lot less safe behind these steel bars.

By taking her theory to Sue, Spencer may have just signed her own death warrant. Only time will tell. If her similarities to Jenny are any indication, she’s already a Dead Woman Walking.

All this spider business is really starting to make Spencer's skin crawl. Thinking again about the yellow _I KILD JENE SHEKTR_ web constructed while she was sleeping, Spencer feels less and less sure of Mack’s involvement. She’s not that great of an actress, and they all looked truly surprised by its presence. _(Plus, how would she have gotten out of class early to do it, or into the locked cell without a guard there?)_

… _A guard…_

What if _Boomer_ came in while she was passed out and made the web on Sue’s orders? It seems unlikely that Spencer wouldn’t have heard the door open or any of the work being done, but she can’t rule it out entirely. After all, last night she slept through a goddamn kidnapping. Any guard could’ve easily overheard Spencer freaking out about the nightmare weeks before. It’s not like she wasn’t screaming loud enough. But then, why put all the effort into messing with her? If they want her dead, wouldn’t she _be_ dead by now?

Spencer's head is really starting to hurt from all these questions. If prison wasn’t so goddamn boring, her mind would have something else to do than go down these endless rabbit holes. It’s times like these that she wishes she wasn’t a problem solver by nature. She hates how obsessive she gets when there are new leads in a case. Too often, she ends up tugging on the wrong thread. Her neck hurts and she wants so much to just _rest_ , but she can't – not yet.

Playing Devil's Advocate with herself, if only to help her sleep with both eyes closed tonight, she’ll give Sue the benefit of the doubt. Suppose she was telling the truth – the disappearing girls aren’t dead at all, they're just released for one reason or another. Legitimately, legally, purposefully. It happens in regular prisons all the time. Still, it's hard to believe that anyone in _this_ prison could earn release on good behavior and doubtful that any of them would truly become a productive member of society again from their stint here. It's not like Spencer, herself, is feeling any more rehabili--

_...Holy shit._

The motto on the emblem of the ship.

_The Uterius: Where prisoners aren't rehabilitated, they're reborn!_

Sue isn't planning on turning any of these women into taxpaying, law-abiding citizens. She's...what? Encouraging them to stay criminals and releasing them back into the wild? Sending them on covert missions for something? The list of classes _is_ basically College for Murderers (and Weirdos). Are violent girls brought in here to learn how to be even worse? Is Sue hand-picking certain inmates and grooming them to become a part of some mafia-type organization? She tells the other prisoners they're released or transferred or something else innocuous, and she tells the President they're dead. They're out of the system, and no one's the wiser, and Sue makes whatever profit she's arranged with her new spies and the space mafia.

_Oh, oh wow._

Maybe Sue’s the one not getting enough credit.

Now back to square one all over again, Spencer doesn't know if she likes this any more than the killer spider theory. It means the girls might still be alive, which is an upside. Probably. But they could just be killing other people. Either way, they're still disappearing and not coming back.

Spencer folds down the corner of the page and continues on.

Jenny’s diary just gets more and more out there as it goes. The web sketches become more frequent as Jenny's sanity erodes away. Charlotte definitely wrote to Jenny more than she’s ever written to Spencer, but then, Charlotte seems to have made herself scarce now that Spencer’s on to her. If Jenny never suspected Charlotte was a killer, they could’ve had a longer relationship, and a deadly one.

Skipping the essays now, if only to spare her very tired brain, Spencer looks at Charlotte’s messages in isolation. Most of the writing seems pretty innocuous and/or vague, but it’s all definitely fucking weird.

**_READ TO ME_ **

**_LUSTY WOMEN_ **

**_NO_ **

**_PINK LADY_ **

**_RADIANT_ **

**_LEZ GIRLS_ **

**_WHY_ **

**_PUSSY GREAT_ **

**_BEWARE_ **

**_BLACK HOLE_ **

**_MARY CHRISTMAS_ **

**_STOP HER_ **

**_HAPPY NEW YEAR_ **

**_ON MY WAY_ **

**_BLOODY MARY_ **

**_QUEEN B_ **

**_YES_ **

**_MONDAY_ **

**_COURAGE_ **

**_TRUST ME_ **

This reading strategy isn’t proving any less creepy.

Holiday greetings and obvious small talk aside, Spencer can guess what many of the rest are about. She’s seen “Little Lusty Women” in the library. There’s what she hopes is a reference to Jenny’s writing class and not just a declaration of sexual preference. And, wouldn’t you know, Charlotte’s a fan of Raven’s vodka with tomato juice, assuming Martha Slewgurt even has some in stock. But at this point, it’s more likely to be a Bloody Mary with actual blood.

A sudden memory of Mack’s Pruno brings up a horrible taste in her mouth.

She looks again at the downright chilling messages.

**_BEWARE_ **

**_STOP HER_ **

_Stop who?_

Every one of these webs must have an accompanying story, only Jenny doesn’t seem to be in a sharing mood.

_Great. Thanks for nothing._

The fact of the matter is, Spencer’s so damn paranoid at this point and the web messages are so vague, they could mean anything she wants them to be, like a fucking magazine horoscope. That’s both the good news and the bad news. She’s already talked herself into and out of, what, six different theories in the last three hours alone? There’s no way to know which words are actual clues and what’s irrelevant. She’ll never be able to escape the shadow of doubt, not with this as her Bible.

Spencer’s going to go mad in here.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, she quickly hides the journal under her thigh and tries to pretend she’s just sitting there doing nothing. Maybe Buffy has an update on the manhunt.

“Any news?” she asks, more than a bit hopeful.

“Lunch time,” Buffy says, sliding three small bowls through the door grate without ceremony. It looks like lumpy, brown mush. Most definitely not the pick-me-up Spencer had in mind, and Buffy’s gone before she can press for any further developments.

_Fantastic._

Spencer’s system needs nourishment after all these mental gymnastics, but there’s no way that congealed mass is going to do more good than harm. Even if it were possible to convince herself it’s mashed potatoes with gravy already mixed in, her mind’s far too tired for that leap of imagination right. And she doesn’t want to think about how it greatly resembles the small pile of vomit still at the end of River’s bed. So, Spencer pushes on and turns another page.

There are more than few rants about various cellmates, and you’d think Jenny Schecter lived in a sorority the way she’s dropping names and gossip. Just when the details start getting interesting, a transfer is mentioned, then again and again a few pages later. Spencer can only assume Jenny kept getting passed around because nobody wanted to live with her. At the very least, she lived in cells 2, 14, 6, 18, 11, and finally 10.

Spencer turns the page and the tone shifts entirely. She discovers a series of rage-fueled drawings of Xs over faces and repeated tirades, like stepping inside someone’s mental breakdown. All work and no play did not make Jenny a dull girl, not at _all_. Spencer sits straight up and feasts her eyes on the delicious crazy before her. 

_Another winter is passed, bleak and dark. Moments repeat, each as much without purpose as those before. Time here has no meaning without the fiery sun burning our eyes, burning our skin, burning us through from the outside. We forget who we are when we cannot feel a primal connection to our own world, cannot feel the grass between our toes and the worm-ridden soil caked on our hands. Without earth, we are no longer human. We are but flesh and hair and grime and spite, choking on our own insipidity._

Who needs lunch when Spencer has this overdramatic, demented space poetry to keep her going? She turns the page.

_But I am connected to something primal. Something ancient. Inside me there is a beast lurking, waiting, hungry, pressing its claws against my surface to break through. It speaks to me in my dreams. Each morning I wonder if this will be its day of birth. If I will shed this skin of acquiescence and complacence and bring forth the manifestation of my rage. If my claws will finally rip the smugness from her lips. If my teeth will tear the pink linen to reveal a trembling, pathetic weakling, powerless in the dark of its own shadow, shrunken to nothingness without the sycophants and sheep at her side. The patrons of her “art” in the incarceration whorehouse will wake from their labored slumber and view Lucyfer in her true form: NOTHINGNESS **.**_

“Jesus!” she says. It's...a lot. But then Spencer reads it again to be sure she saw it right.

_…Lucy?!_

_Dr. Umbridge must’ve had a field day with this one._

Lucy’s batshit crazy, but she doesn’t seem _that_ bad. Not Actual-Hell-Demon bad. “What did Lucy _do_ to this girl?” Spencer wonders to herself and starts scanning the next paragraph. 

She can’t find any specifics on what transpired between them, but there’s plenty more that seems relevant. If Mack is the president of the We Love Lucy club, Jenny was the captain of team Die Lucy Die. All this time, Spencer thought _she_ held a certain amount of animosity toward Lucy Fabray, but Jenny had her outdone by a country mile. It’s inspiring. And, to Spencer’s delight, it looks like Jenny pulled her same trick, infiltrating Play-Doh Funhouse under false pretenses. Or, really, Spencer pulled Jenny’s trick. The similarities between them keep piling up.

_But why? Was Jenny doing recon on Lucy, too?_

It seems so unfortunate that Spencer never got to meet this girl. She would’ve been great to interview. Quinn even said she wasn’t so bad after all. They could’ve been a bang-up team. Despite the obvious crazy, Spencer’s sorry Jenny died. 

But what’s more unfortunate, the frenzied writing doesn’t seem to reveal anything new about Lucy that Spencer doesn’t already know or believe, herself. Spencer’s even willing to blindly agree to Jenny’s claim that her Pussy writing class (name notwithstanding) was superior to anything involving arts and crafts.

She reads on, if only because she can’t seem to look away. Underneath a particularly antagonistic sketch of Lucy (with snakes for hair), Spencer comes across a passage that makes her blood runs cold.

_Where would I be without my Elizabeth? My only trusted ally in this iron purgatory, my sole confidante and friend. She reads the blood-soaked words dripping from my fingers and shares my taste for vengeance. She will stand on my shoulder, towering over the slaughtered tatters of the fallen Hell queen, tickling with laughter and feasting upon her flesh. And we will rise to claim what is ours, reborn like Spring itself, stretching toward the sun with new life._

Spencer just stares.

_Holy. Fucking. Crap._

And just like that, the killer spider theory is back in play.

With wide eyes, she rereads those words, _“feasting upon her flesh,”_ over and over. Jenny clearly has a flair for the dramatic, but Spencer can’t help but wonder how literal that bit might be. Sure, maybe Jenny’s just projecting her own feelings onto the little spider and misinterpreting a good listener for an ally. Either way, it seems Jenny’s convinced that Charlotte is capable of killing, and that’s enough for Spencer.

Casting this lens on the whole diary, Spencer looks back over the final string of web messages, and sure enough, a narrative begins to emerge:

**_STOP HER_ **

**_QUEEN B_ **

**_YES_ **

**_MONDAY_ **

**_COURAGE_ **

**_TRUST ME_ **

Spencer stares again with wide eyes.

Charlotte was going to help Jenny take out the queen bee, Lucy Fabray, in her very own Funhouse -- the prized Monday class.

_Oh my god._

_What was supposed to happen?_  Did _something happen? When was this? Why did I not hear about it?_  Surely an attack on the Princess of Prison would’ve been hot gossip for weeks to come. Or at the very least, a fun story to tell a new inmate. Right?

Spencer folds down the page corner and makes a mental note to ask her cellmates when they’re done sleeping off their nausea. Dark Willow is bound to remember something. It’s a blessing that Spencer doesn’t have to rely on asking Mack – though, Mack wouldn’t have witnessed what went down, anyway, as she only joined the class because Jenny was out.

That gets Spencer’s mind digging back through her mental calendar to that first week…when she arrived on a Tuesday. As in, the day after Monday.

Spencer stops breathing as the realization hits her.

She arrived here the day after Charlotte and Jenny tried killing Lucy. Maybe even the same day Jenny herself was killed.

_It has to be._

Aphasia thought Spencer was Jenny when she walked into the cell. Surely, she wouldn’t have made that mistake if a week or more had passed.

Spencer’s chest tightens again at the thought. She was so thrown by the sheer absurdity of being in space prison, drugged and abandoned, she hadn’t realized just what she was stepping into that day. It was a new beginning for her, but it was hardly a fresh start for the others. . Life had been going on there long before she arrived -- stories, trouble, problems. Murders. The air was still thick with whatever chaos came the day before, and Spencer had no real idea of what that meant. No fucking idea whatsoever. She was walking right into a horror movie, her cold bunk merely a freshly vacant grave.

And, even piecing this together, Spencer _still_ has no details around Jenny’s death. That’s the most maddening part of all. Hours learning every superficial and demented thing about this girl, and Spencer’s not any closer to the truth. Saying Jenny was airlocked seems like such an easy cover-up for an act of violence, especially when the body's gone. Everyone hated her, so it could’ve been any of them. Maybe Lucy caught wind of the plan and dealt with Jenny herself…somehow. Maybe an angry mob of inmates got sick of her prima donna bullshit and beat her to a pulp. Maybe she drove her cellmates crazy and Mack caved her skull in with her spank paddle. Maybe what's left of Jenny is sitting in prison toilet bowl nearby. Really, it could be anyone or anything, and Spencer’s more afraid now than ever. Because, regardless of how Jenny died, there’s still a killer on the loose, and no one is safe.

There aren’t many resources at the prisoners' disposal ( _well, other than Aphasia, apparently)_ , so when the journal ends, Spencer spends a few minutes working down her list of potential weapons and trying to imagine how Jenny might’ve gone after Lucy. It’s quite a pleasant daydream, all told. Maybe Jenny wanted to stab Lucy to death with popsicle sticks or glue her airways shut or pour containers of glitter down her throat. Anything could’ve gone down that day. There was clearly a plan in place. _Did it just go wrong?_

… ** _TRUST ME_** _…_

The last two words in the journal are hardly the resolution and tidy ending Spencer wants. Hopefully they brought Jenny more comfort than they’re bringing her right now. Though, maybe trusting Charlotte was Jenny’s final and fatal mistake.

The gears in Spencer’s head turn furiously once again, and suddenly her eyes go wide. Maybe Charlotte -- _goddamnit, ELIZABETH_ \-- was actually in league with _Lucy_ the whole time. Maybe the spider’s making her way around the prison and talking to _everyone_ , not just Jenny _(and me)_. Assuming Lucy was here before Jenny, who’s to say the spider didn’t befriend her first?

Spencer flashes back to one of Charlotte’s very first messages.

**_MY PLAYGROUND_ **

_Holy shit._

The eight-legged monster could have been going back and forth between cells, passing along messages to Lucy about how much Jenny hated her. Maybe she was infiltrating Jenny’s bunk and faking adoration, luring her into thinking she was her friend, just like Jenny did to Lucy in class! Maybe Elizabeth killed Stacey Merkin to build Jenny’s trust, but then double-crossed Jenny on Lucy’s command.

_Oh, this is rich._

_It’s also insane._

But what a fucking story if it _is_  true.

What kind of endgame does Lucy have, then, Spencer wonders. Was this all just to fuck with Jenny’s head somehow? Lucy _did_ kill thirty-seven people with a chainsaw, by her own admission. Maybe her thirst for blood didn’t end there, but she just can’t continue her killing spree behind bars. So, she enlists a ninja like Elizabeth to do her dirty work, and together they take out Stacey, Aeryn, Vause, and now Paulie.

No wonder Lucy wouldn’t kill the spider in the bathroom the other day. _Friend to animals, my ass._ She just didn’t want to lose her pet serial killer. The same one who took out her Enemy Number One: Jenny Schecter.

The more Spencer thinks about it, the more it makes sense, and the more she believes it.

It’s starting to feel like Survivor up here, with girls getting voted off the island every Shark Week. Only, Spencer doubts there’s a million dollars waiting for her at the end, should she survive, and Lucy’s the only one voting. Spencer could really use an immunity idol right about now. Or a gun.

Sue and the guards might really be in the dark about this after all, she thinks. Maybe they know something is going on but aren’t sure what. Even if they believed Spencer’s spider theory for a minute, they can't admit it. Any apparent shift of power, however slight, practically begs for a mutiny. Maybe they’re scrambling to identify the owner of the killer spider so they can throw her in Solitary or something. Spencer can only hope.

But then, if she’s wrong about this, she’d better watch out or _she’ll_ be the one going into Solitary.

… ** _TRUST ME_** _…_

With a chill of fear, Spencer slams the journal shut and tosses it away like it’s carrying a deadly disease. It hits the floor with a loud _smack_ , but fortunately her cellmates don't stir. Spencer's pulse is racing, and she places a hand on the cold wall, looking around to re-center herself in reality and regain control of the moment.

The goddamn diary is quickly beginning to feel like both a blessing and a curse. Just like that stupid Lost marathon Hanna made her sit through in middle school, Spencer’s getting three new questions for every answer. But in her gut, she knows that Lucy Fabray is involved in this craziness, somehow, some way.

Spencer looks over at Paulie’s empty bed and wonders what she or Aeryn Sun or Alex Vause ever did to cross her. Maybe they just happened to get in Lucy’s way, or were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe they earned it.

A jolt shoots down Spencer’s spine, hit by the terrifying realization that now, after the bathroom incident, _she’s_ probably on Lucy’s shit list _(hit list?)_ , too. Yes, it was mostly Quinn doing the antagonizing, but Spencer certainly didn’t help. And considering the only other person who’s known to converse with Elizabeth the spider is now dead, Spencer’s not putting that in her plus column. If her theory stands, she could easily be Lucy’s next target. She just keeps giving Lucy reasons.

But if she’s not at the top of the list, then that means Quinn probably is, and _that_ makes Spencer’s heart stop.

She looks around the cell again, listening to the thick, still silence hanging in the air. If Lucy wanted to get to her, she certainly proved last night that she can. Maybe Paulie was just a warning shot. A message. It certainly shows Spencer how vulnerable they are behind these bars.

There’s nowhere to hide.

But – lesson #71 of staying alive in Rosewood: Hide in plain sight. Spencer outlived a psychotic fuck coming after her for two years, and this isn’t any different. _Well, okay_ , _it’s completely different_ , but she can’t let that shake her confidence. Spencer Hastings didn’t come this far just to be taken down by a goddamn art hippie and a thing the size of her fingernail. At least, that’s what she’s telling herself.

 _If only Emily, Aria, and Hanna were here. They’d know what to do._ Spencer closes her eyes and mentally sends out the SOS text. It’d feel stupid if she weren’t so completely and utterly scared.

River and Dark Willow have somehow slept through this entire day of revelation and near-mental-breakdown like nothing’s happened. But really, everything has changed. Spencer can’t go back to pretending nothing’s going on. She can’t just laugh and joke with her new friends about what ice cream they miss most and what politicians they hope are dead by the time their sentences end.

Camaraderie or not, she can’t stay here. Spencer Hastings isn’t just going to sit around and wait to die.

_Keep your friends close but your enemies closer._

Climbing down from her bunk, she picks the journal off the floor and tucks it under the bra strap against her back. The lunch is still sitting cold and discolored. Her cellmate is still missing. Her life is still in danger.

Everything is still terrible.

Spencer takes a deep breath, and bangs on the bars five times as loudly as she can. Fortunately, Dark Willow’s ensuing fireball misses her head by several feet.

****************

 

It doesn’t take much acting on her part to play the role of Still Freaked Out and Panicking Cellmate of the Disappeared Girl when Buffy appears. As Spencer passes through the cell block, each whispering voice could be a new rumor train starting, given how many check-ups she's had lately, but she can’t worry about that now.

The guard ushers her through the vault door and past the Infirmary, where one of the doctors is quietly discussing a chart with a beautiful, curly-blonde woman in a lab coat Spencer’s never seen before. They close the door hurriedly as Spencer passes, like she’s not supposed to see them, but it feels a bit abrupt. This place seems to have no shortage of attractive blonde doctors, that’s for sure. Spencer can’t help but assume this woman’s named Lewis-Burke-Robbins, too.

_Why wouldn’t she be?_

Continuing around the curved corridor, Spencer finds herself stepping into Dr. Umbridge’s office once more. It’s exactly as she remembers it, cats and pink and lace and _ugh_ , but she’s going to have to suck it up, because her life -- and Quinn’s -- might depend on how this conversation goes.

The room is empty, so Spencer takes a moment to scan over the items meticulously arranged atop the mahogany desk. Her eye catches sight of a manila folder labeled **Ripley, Ellen** , with an enormous, red **DANGEROUS** stamp covering much of it. Spencer’s pretty sure she hasn’t met or heard that name at any point during her time here, and she’s starting to feel like that’s a good thing. Still, curiosity gets the better of her. Even a picture would let her know who to avoid. She reaches out to flick open the top cover, but before she can, a toilet flushes in the adjoining room, and Spencer scrambles to replace the folder as she found it.

Dr. Umbridge is humming some off-tune melody as she steps into the room, wiping her hands. “Ah!” she says upon seeing Spencer, who’s sitting like someone shoved a broom straight up her ass. “Miss Hastings. Pleasure to see you again. Is everything all right with your new cellmates?”

Spencer may have turned on the waterworks for Buffy, but she’s not pulling any punches here. “Well, Paulie’s dead.”

Dr. Umbridge doesn’t look surprised or aghast, exactly, but her eyes do widen a bit at the news. “And how does that make you feel?” she asks, tilting her head to one side.

Spencer blinks as her eyebrows raise. "How do I  _feel?_   I feel like this is seriously messed up! I feel like my life is in danger!"

“Grief has many stages," Dr. Umbridge starts, "and it’s --”

“I want a transfer.” It’s a demand.

“But dear, you’ve barely just settled into your new home! Why don’t you give it some time --”

“I’m not safe there!” Spencer protests angrily. She has to navigate this point without going into the spider business, or she’ll never get her way. “Girls are disappearing into thin air.”

That seems to pique Umbridge’s interest like nothing Spencer’s said before. “Really, now? Tell me more.”

“Uh…” Spencer didn’t have anything to follow that. “They were here and now they’re not?”

“But surely they must have gone somewhere. People don’t just vanish into nothing.”

_Yes, they go into a little spider belly. Or possibly into the space mafia. Can we get back on track here?_

“Tell me, Spencer,” Umbridge continues, “Have you ever _seen_ someone disappear into thin air, as you say? Right in front of you?”

This sets off warning bells -- Something’s not right. Did this conversation just become about Hermione? And immediately, Spencer remembers what Aphasia told her – _Don’t trust Umbridge._

“Just what everyone else has seen, I guess. In the Mess Hall.”

Umbridge leans forward a bit, hands folded in front of her, with the slightest trace of a grin. It’s fucking creepy. “You mean Miss Granger.”

“Who?”

“Hermione. Granger,” Umbridge repeats. “She seems to have a way of...slipping through the bars, so to speak.”

Spencer’s heart is pounding, torn between wanting to know more about all this and not wanting to betray one of the only friends she has here. Aphasia’s never given Spencer a reason not to trust her. The least she can do is return that favor.

“I really don’t know anything about that.”

“Don’t you?” Umbridge asks sweetly.

“No,” Spencer says. She’s more than a little annoyed. “If I knew where girls were going, I wouldn’t have come to you in the first place to ask what was going on.”

“Well,” Umbridge offers, “don’t you think it’s possible that we’re closer to the truth than you realize? Tell me – have you ever suspected Miss Granger of taking any of your personal property?”

“I --” Spencer pauses abruptly at the question. From what she’s seen, Hermione is no thief, but her girlfriend most certainly is. “No. But then, I don’t really have any personal property to take.”

Umbridge huffs almost imperceptibly. “How very lucky for you.” She leans back in her chair and moves her hands to slide down the armrests and grip tightly. “Or perhaps Miss Granger is taking your _friends_ outside these walls.”

Spencer swallows around the lump in her throat. It looks like she’s not the only one with this theory. But if Hermione’s behind this and the authorities haven’t figured out how, Spencer’s not about to help them get any closer to stopping her. She wants a way out as much as the next person.

 

“Miss Umbridge,” she begins.

 _“Doctor_.”

Spencer flinches. _“Dr._ Umbridge.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. If she can’t land this argument, she might blow everything. “I don’t know this Hermione girl, I swear. I’ve seen her, but I’ve never spoken to her. You know I don’t have any friends. That’s why you moved me in the first place! So, no, I don’t know if she’s taking people out of here. I don’t even know how that could be _possible_. Can you not see how scared I am? I’m _terrified_. And I thought it was your job to help fix that.”

It’s not what the good doctor wants to hear, but she isn’t swallowing Spencer whole, so that’s something. “I’m listening.”

“Something happened to my friend Paulie, something terrible while she was _sleeping in a locked cell_ , and I don’t want to be next. I have rights, and I need to feel safe here.” She takes another breath. “I want a transfer. Please.” She waits a beat before adding, “to Lucy Fabray’s cell.”

The expression on Dr. Umbridge’s face changes completely, shifting into equal parts intrigue and amusement.

_Bingo._

The fire crackles loudly behind them, but Dr. Umbridge doesn’t even blink. “And why would I approve such a request?”

“For my protection. And because I think I could learn more from her than anyone else in here.”

“Learn what, exactly?”

_Papier-mâché?_

_Chainsaw maintenance?_

_Mafia management?_

_Fingerbanging?_

Spencer blinks again to clear all those thoughts. “Survival.”

Dr. Umbridge purses her lips and narrows her eyes while she carefully considers the proposal. After what feels like an entire minute of beady-eyed scrutiny, she pushes a button on her intercom and says, “Miss Summers, please prepare Miss Hastings for immediate transfer.”

Spencer bites back a smile as she stands and thanks her.

 _Step one, success_.

_Here’s hoping I survive step two._


	30. Step Into My Parlor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It's funny – Spencer's passed this room every day since she arrived over a month ago, but it looks different now that she's stepping inside it for the first time. Cell 1, on the very far end of the block, is the closest to the showers and Mess Hall, meaning it's also the quietest, as it’s separated from the rest of the population. But the silence doesn't make Spencer feel any safer as she's pushed inside.

The cell looks the same as the rest, except for how the entire back wall is tiled from floor to ceiling in fingerpaintings -- white rectangle pages covered in every color of the rainbow, each with a different...animal? Monster? Alien? Spencer can't identify any on sight, but maybe she just needs to be closer. Or five. Or drunk. A drunk five-year-old would certainly have some opinions on these masterpieces.

She's becoming all too familiar with this New Kid at School feeling, but at least this time she knew exactly what she was getting into. You've got to be a special kind of crazy to volunteer for the lion's den.

And lions waste no time laying eyes on their new prey.

Faith rolls over on the top right bunk, looking at Spencer like something she just found on the bottom of her shoe. “We babysitting now?” 

“New roomie,” Buffy says from the other side of the bars. She adds, “Play nice,” in a tone that sounds much more sexual than Spencer's okay with.

“No, really,” Santana says from the bottom left bed. “Is this Sue's idea of a joke? Because I'm not laughing.”

“Afraid not,” Spencer replies, stepping cautiously toward the empty bunk above Santana. She is sure to keep her distance by using the end frame to pull herself up, even though it's harder that way. Spencer takes off her shoes but leaves them at the foot of her bed, not wanting to risk losing any of her precious little property. Her page of notes is tucked into her sock, along with her beloved toothbrush -- and they both scratch like hell -- but she can tolerate it while she's the center of attention.

Lucy sits up on the bunk under Faith’s and says kindly, “Now, now, girls, let's not be rude.”

Spencer's got a clear line of sight from this vantage point. There was a 1-in-3 chance they'd be sharing a side, which would've made it much trickier to keep watch on her target. But this feels like a win already. From here, she can see everything and every move that Lucy makes. Though, it's not lost on Spencer that it's the same angle Quinn had on _her,_ back in cell 10.

_Focus._

“If she's here,” Lucy continues, “there must be a good reason for it.”

Faith and Lucy stare at Spencer like they're waiting for her to answer, but Spencer doesn't know what to say. Suddenly, she feels Santana's foot kick the frame under her. “Hey!”

“Spill it,” Santana says.

“I don't know! I'm just here!” Spencer tries to shift her body to the edge of the bed, back against the wall, to avoid any further attacks from below.

“We don’t get new cellmates,” Faith says like Spencer’s an idiot. “It’s not like they’re out of cold beds. And we don't know you. Doesn't add up.”

“Why's it such a big deal?” Spencer asks. There's no way to make the question sound as innocent as she wants it to be, so she adds, “It's not like I'm some kind of spy or something.”

_OH GOD. WHY DID I SAY THAT?_

_ABORT, ABORT._

_I'M A FUCKING MORON._

But the others don't seem fazed. Santana huffs at the idea like it's meant to be funny. Lucy gets off her bed and walks toward Spencer, locking eye contact as she moves. “Do you play nicely with others, Spencer?”

She blinks, a bit thrown by the question. Is Lucy threatening her?

_Jeez, that didn't take long._

“Um. Yes?”

Lucy breaks her gaze and turns to walk toward the back of the cell, admiring her wall of work. “That's too bad,” she says.

This is just getting weirder by the minute. “Why?”

Circling back, Lucy stops in front of a painting with far too much red on it. From where Spencer's sitting, she can just make out the faint outline of a person among the pools of what must be blood. Lucy keeps her eyes on the painting as she speaks but seems to intentionally position her body so it doesn't block Spencer's view of it. “I was hoping from now on, you'd only play with us.”

And in a flash, Lucy's demeanor changes. She turns to Spencer, and the kind smile dissolves into a terrifying glower.

Spencer's blood runs cold.

“Um. I, uh...sure.” She's too scared to say anything else and shifts uncomfortably on the bed, curling up into a ball without even realizing it.

And just like that, Lucy shifts back into a beaming, saintly smile and says, “Wonderful! I'm glad that's settled. Welcome, Spencer. You're one of us now.”

Spencer purses her lips into a forced smile and tries to look appreciative, but it's hard when you've been adopted by a Satanic cult.

****************

It doesn't take long for the adrenaline rush of fear to fade as Spencer settles into these surroundings. It turns out, this cell is just as boring as the other ones, if not more so. Small talk only lasts so long, and she doesn’t want to push too hard for information this early on. Prison topics feel fairly safe, but all she really learns is that Santana’s knitting class is anything but, as they’re not given anything sharp to use and their stash of yarn disappeared months ago. So, it’s more just a place to make out with each other for an hour. _Which, no thank you._ _Unless...well_. Right now, anything that reminds her of Quinn is just frustrating, so Spencer shuts down her own conversation upon hearing Santana’s _also_ from Ohio. Enough is enough.

Five hours into her new home, and it’s back to staring at the ceiling and counting screws in the metal plates. She realizes how much she took Aphasia for granted. Crazy and unpredictable as her hoarding was, it certainly gave them ways to pass the time. Spencer would kill for something to do right now. A tennis ball, or some building blocks. A rubber band. A thumbtack. Homework. Window washing.

 _Anything_.

Raven came by and traded Lucy a small, sealed can for some glue and pipe cleaners from her craft supplies. Lucy handed the vodka off to Faith right away without a glance at Spencer. Not that she would’ve wanted it anyway. Probably. Though, being drunk right now could help her beat the boredom. She’s already read Jenny Schecter’s journal cover to cover three times, and the inside of that girl’s mind is a terrifying place, Spencer’s decided. She’s gone through and tried to align the timeline of the four disappearances with what she knows about Hermione’s comings and goings, but there just isn’t enough information to gain traction. Besides, she’s only come and gone twice – not four times – and never left during Shark Week, which is when the girls go. So, yeah. If Hermione’s pulling that off somehow, she’s got Spencer stumped, too, and her brain hurts just thinking about it. She _wants_ to believe Umbridge. It’s certainly the most appealing theory of them all, what with it not involving flesh-eating monsters, but it’s not any more likely than the rest right now.

Spencer needs something new to think about. Something not about death. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for one of Quinn’s weird romance novels right --

“Buffy!” A high-pitched voice pierces the air from across the cell. Spencer turns to discover...a most frightening sight. “If you're going to lesbian with anyone, you should lesbian with _me!_  Your super-duper gay not-at- _all_ -out-of-nowhere friend, Willow!”

Faith is lying on her bed, bare feet crossed, probably drunk, hands raised and talking to each other. With sock puppets.

Spencer's eyes widen in fear.

“But Willow,” Faith talks back with her other hand, using a very low and grumbly voice, “this stake up my ass means I would never even consider something so amazing as banging a woman.”

_What is happening right now?_

“You're really missing out.” – Faith's back to the super high voice – “Ladies surrrre are delicious. You should think about getting it on with that gorgeous, evil slayer. I hear she's an absolute Viking in the sack.”

“Okay,” Santana's voice cuts in, “this is creepy on some whole entirely new level.”

 _Thank you_ , Spencer thinks.

“If you want Buffy so badly,” Lucy says from below, not looking up from the green rolls of Play-Doh she's molding, “I'm sure something can be arranged.” Her words are thick with suggestion, and Spencer wonders if Lucy has as much pull over the guards in here as she does the other inmates.

“Show her your little puppet show,” mocks Santana, “I can already hear her panties hitting the floor. Oh wait, no. That's the sound of your pathetic desperation.”

Faith makes a face at her, then yanks the socks off her hands to put them back where they belong. “Screw you.”

“Wash your hands first,” Santana spits back and roughly adjusts her position, rocking the bunk under Spencer.

“Faith is working through her feelings in healthy ways through roleplay,” Lucy reminds Santana. “Sometimes, there are things we can only say to ourselves, not to each other.”

“It's creepy,” Santana repeats.

Lucy looks up at Spencer now. “Do you have anything _you_ need to say?” The words attack her, thick with insinuation, though Spencer has no idea what Lucy’s implying. “I'd be happy to help you find your words. I'm a very good teacher.”

But the last thing Spencer wants to do is let this psychopath inside her head. There's far too much in there that needs to be said. She doesn't know where she could begin.

Okay, that's a lie.

Somehow, though, she can't imagine solving all her communication problems with Quinn by putting her damn socks on her hands, and she'll eat them before she lets her cellmates know the first inkling of what she wants to say to Quinn, anyway.

Besides, Spencer does have so very much to say to Quinn with her hands, just not like that.

****************

The next day, Saturday, Spencer’s on the toilet when she sees Santana reach under her mattress and discreetly pull out what looks like a deck of cards.

“Oh, thank god,” Spencer says. The thought of a never-ending round of War sounds delightfully tedious right now, even with a partner like Santana.

“Nosy, much?” she retorts, but then Lucy coughs suggestively. Santana looks over with a glare. “What?”

“Maybe you have some wisdom for our new friend.”

Based on what Spencer's learned about Santana thus far, she can't imagine what pearls of knowledge this deviant criminal could have for her. It’s not like Spencer doesn’t know how to shoot the moon; Santana’s hardly going to school her in Hearts.

_Oh god, do they want to play Spades in teams?_

Santana and Lucy stare each other down for what feels like forever before Santana finally caves. “Ugh, fine. Come on, woodland creature.” Scooting over on the bed, Santana turns her back to the cell door and motions for Spencer to sit across from her on the bunk.

Spencer finishes her business and wishes, more than usual, that there were a way to wash her hands besides simply rinsing and wiping them on her uniform. It seemed rude to handle Santana's cards like this, but whatever. Everything here is filthy, anyway.

She ducks under the frame and sits down, right leg bent on the bed, and waits for Santana to deal the cards. Spencer's scared to ask what game they're going to play, and it doesn't really matter, anyway, so long as it passes the time and she makes it out with all limbs intact.

Santana lays four cards face up between them and just stares for a minute, thinking.

“What are we playing?” Spencer hasn't been dealt any cards and doesn't know what to do.

Santana keeps looking down at the queen, 5, 7, and 10. She turns a new card from the deck over, placing an 8 of diamonds on top of the black queen.

“This is pretty sad,” Santana finally says. She then turns over a black 9 on top of the 5. “Holy shit!” she exclaims, very clearly amused at a joke only she is in on. Santana looks up at Spencer like she can't believe what she just learned.

“What?!” Spencer's finding all of this far less funny. “Are you going to tell me the rules or not?”

“It isn't a game,” Lucy cuts in. “She's reading your cards.”

Even if Spencer believed in that wishy-washy Tarot crap, there's no way she'd be buying it here, like this. “You can't do that with a regular deck of cards.”

“How else am I supposed to do it?” Santana asks, with equal parts sincerity and condescension. “It's not my fault your cards are shit.”

 _“You_ shuffled _.”_

Santana holds up a hand and makes a silencing motion. “My psychic Mexican third eye is never wrong.”

“Your _what?”_

“This right here,” Santana says, pointing to the 9 of clubs she just laid down, “means you're _really_ bad in bed.”

“I am not!” Spencer spits back, looking around for back-up and finding only a pity look from Lucy. Faith doesn't even bother to muffle her laugh.

“And this one here” – Santana points to the 8 on the queen – “means you love getting fisted, but, whatever, we already knew that.”

Spencer's mouth falls open, and she immediately turns to Lucy. “Yes, THANKS SO MUCH FOR THAT.”

“I like stories,” Lucy shrugs, without a shred of guilt.

“Let's see what other interesting tidbits we can learn about our new playmate...” She turns a King. “Your favorite food is bologna? Ew.”

“What? No it isn't.”

But Santana's not listening. She flips a 10 onto the 7. “You can't swim?”

“Of course I can swim.”

The Jack of diamonds. “You're allergic to maple syrup? How is _Maple Tits_ allergic to syrup?” Santana frowns. “That's like being allergic to breakfast. _”_

Spencer’s losing patience. “I’m not --”

Faith interjects, “I banged this girl once who was allergic to eggs. Her face got all swollen and bloated --”

“I'M NOT ALLERGIC TO MAPLE SYRUP.”

But then Santana flips up the 4 of spades, and her eyes go wide. She gasps and looks up, her demeanor suddenly shifted from disdain to pure delight as she laughs. “Well played, Hastings, well played. I think I'm finally not bored with you. I mean, it's a total cliché, but still. Didn't think you had it in you. So to speak.”

Spencer's looking back and forth from the card to Santana's face, trying to figure out what in the world she could be alluding to. “What?” she and Faith say simultaneously.

“She fucked her English teacher,” Santana says to Faith matter-of-factly.

“I did not!” But, considering her best friend did, this is getting way too close for comfort now.

Lucy looks over with an expression of confusion and concern. “Weren't you quite young when you learned English?”

... _Huh?_

“Okay,” Spencer says, grabbing the deck out of Santana's hand. “New game.” She clears away the cards and deals four new ones: a 2, 9, ace, and a jack. She turns a 3 onto the jack and exclaims, “Aha! I knew it!” God only knows what she's about to say, but it almost doesn't matter.

Santana leans back against the wall with her arms crossed, looking thoroughly bored. “What.”

“You have...a poor relationship with your mother!” Spencer improvises. Quite pathetically. “And you think your father never loved you!”

“Nice try, Dr. Phil. You keep fishing in that desert.”

Spencer turns over a 6 on top of the ace and tries to think of something interesting to say. Making things up as you go is something she used to be good at. “You turned to crime because you were a poor student, ...and secretly you were jealous of all the smarter people around you, so you retaliated!”

Santana just looks at Lucy and says, casually, “'Do you think we could get Buffy to bring me a new sheet? My bed suddenly seems to have a giant pile of bullshit on it.”

But, no, Spencer's not going to be the laughing stock of this cell, too. Not when she's worked so hard to get here.

“AND THIS!” she shouts, holding up the next card on the deck for Santana to see, before realizing she doesn't even know what the hell it is. Grabbing a quick glance, Spencer continues screaming, fire in her eyes. “THE FOUR OF HEARTS MEANS WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE IN HERE.”

A silence hangs over them for a moment as the echo resonates, but then Santana simply arches an eyebrow and says, “You really suck at this.”

Spencer's breathing hard, pulse pounding in her ears, and she can't believe how calm the rest of them are. Did they not hear what she said?

“Four of hearts?” Faith asks. “Mmm, even I know what that card means.” Now there's a fire in _her_ eyes, but a very different kind.

_Uh oh._


	31. The Most Dangerous Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Whatever the girls have in store for Spencer – public humiliation, water torture, ritual sacrifice – they're drawing it out and making her wait. For four excruciatingly long days now, she's jumped at every word spoken to her and napped with one eye open. Not knowing what they’re planning is much worse than whatever they’ll eventually do. Probably.

It’s late on Wednesday night, and, fortunately, the cards are still stowed away and cell 10’s well out of hearing range, so Spencer’s considering it a double win.

Faith and Santana are playing what Spencer can only interpret as some cruder version of Hot or Not. It seems to consist solely of whether or not they would go down on particular inmates. Lucy's working on a fingerpainting masterpiece in the back of the cell, so Santana's lying on Lucy's bunk for a change of scenery. Spencer's trying to ignore the conversation, but there's just nothing else to distract her. She is dragged, against her will, down the entire prison roster on a wild and crude cunnilingus adventure.

“Shay,” Faith offers.

“Oh, definitely.” Santana _hmms_ in approval of her decision. “Firefighters have that nice, smoked flavor.” Faith laughs, and Santana grins as she presents her offering: “The good doc.”

“Mmm, I can’t resist the blondes,” Faith says. “You know that.” She’s lost in her thoughts for a moment before volleying back to Santana, “Okay -- Corky.”

“Butch girls do taste the sweetest,” Santana says with a grin. She holds up a warning finger as her expression changes in a flash. “But not her raspy slut girlfriend who throws herself at all the new inmates. No me gusta. Get some standards.”

Spencer doesn't want to think about the fact that _she's_ been one of those new inmates. Instead, she laughs quietly to herself at how Santana has no room to call anyone a slut, considering she flirts with anything that moves. They’ve been playing this game for half an hour now, and Spencer’s only heard two “no” votes from Santana, assuming Violet counts. (Amusingly, the other was Mack because, “She'd probably taste like that bullshit wine she makes.” Spencer doesn't disagree.) Unless she's lost count, Spencer thinks there are thirty-six women in this prison her bunkmate would bury her face in.

_Wow, Santana’s kind of a ho._

“Shaw,” Santana offers to Faith.

“Roger that,” Faith grins. “She’s mean. I like it.” She shifts on the bed and quickly says, “Ooh, speaking of blondes, Moriarty.”

It takes Spencer a minute to remember who that is -- one of Shaw’s cellmates two doors down in #3. Strikingly beautiful, though Spencer’s not ever been close enough for a conversation. The third woman is Shaw’s girlfriend…Plant or Leaf or something like that. Everyone in prison has such weird names.

“Move her in here and see how long she lasts,” Santana says dangerously. _“Please.”_

Faith laughs, and they settle into a natural silence for a minute or so, considering their next selections.

Suddenly, a voice carries over from next door. _“I’m blonde too, you know! Well, kind of.”_

Santana turns around and calls into the corridor, “Oh, you wish.” She settles back into her bunk and inspects her nails. “Nosy bitch.”

“Nicky’s alright,” Faith says in her defense. But then another loud voice comes from next door.

_“I’LL fuck you so hard, I’ll turn you blonde. Does that count?”_

Santana shouts back, “Hey Spencer, d’you know we call her ‘Boo’ because her Hairy Manilow is so terrifying, it literally scares girls to death?”

Spencer isn’t sure what’s worse, the term “Hairy Manilow” or being pulled into this neighbors’ quarrel. She’s trying to remember who all’s even over there. Nichols and Big Boo, both of whom Spencer’s seen in classes but not spoken to, and Morello, who never shuts up. There’s also that Johanna girl who just looks sad all the time. Spencer heard people talking about her after Katniss left, but she doesn’t know the story there. Nor does she care to, really.

 _“Why don’t you come see for yourself, gringa?”_   Boo counters.

“Fuck off,” Santana says loudly. Then, she asks Lucy with a frustrated tone, “Can we kill them?”

“Not today,” Lucy replies without looking up from her painting.

It’s more than a little scary that Spencer has no idea just how much of a joke any of that is.

The game seems to have come to a halt, but then Faith takes another turn. “I assume your position on Quinn is unchanged.”

Santana waves her hand and says proudly, “Been there, done that, would eat again.”

Well, that sure gets Spencer’s attention – and Lucy's too, though she simply glares and goes back to her art.

But Spencer feels like she's been slapped in the face. If the game continues, she doesn't hear a thing, because Santana's seven words are just repeating on loop in her head.

And here Spencer thought it was all just a coincidence that they were both from Ohio. What a fucking idiot.

Why did Quinn never mention a history with Santana? Did it happen here in prison or before? Which would be worse? Was Santana Quinn’s conquest before her? Is that all Spencer is to Quinn now, another prison fling?

Ugh, _feelings_.

_GAY feelings._

Her head hurts.

And she’s been reminded how gross she thinks the expression “eat out” is. Like, please, have some class.

But now that she's let her mind go there, Spencer can’t shake the thought of Santana’s face buried between Quinn’s legs, looking up occasionally to grin and run her deft tongue slowly along the soft skin as Quinn’s back arches into her. Santana's fingers digging into Quinn's hipbones as she pulls herself closer, deeper into the warmth, tasting...It's not fucking fair. Spencer hasn’t gotten to do that, and it’s been killing her. Knowing now that her crass -- _What did Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins say? “Aggressively promiscuous”?_ \-- cellmate has already been where she so badly wants to go…

Spencer doesn’t want to be in this cell anymore.

“Okay, okay, hang on,” Faith says, like she’s got a good one next. A dramatic pause. “Old Maid Rip.”

_Who?_

Santana’s hand is up in the air, as if to push away the very image itself as she cringes. “Fuck me. Okay, game over. That is disgusting.”

“Since when do you not like older women?” Faith jests.

“When they don’t shower more than once a fucking year.”

Spencer breaks her silence now, welcoming the change of topic. “Wait, what?”

“You don’t know about Ripley?” says Faith, looking over.

“This chick has some major hygiene issues.” says Santana. “Pretty sure her uniform is its own fungal colony.”

Spencer shifts uncomfortably, still panty-less and now feeling much grosser about it. “Why? What’s her deal?”

“She’s been in Solitary, like, forever,” Faith says, jumping down and lowering herself to the ground for some exercise.

“They only let her out once a year,” Santana says. “She’s like the Ghost of Christmas Please-Bathe.”

Faith laughs. She holds out her hands like she’s framing a picture for Spencer. “Imagine a holiday slasher film: Fun and death for the whole family!”

Santana starts singing, _“You better not shout, you better not cry, you better watch out ‘cause you’re gonna die_ …” Faith’s cracking up, but Spencer’s the furthest thing from amused.

“She kills people? In here?”

And that’s when Spencer places the name.

**Ripley, Ellen.**

The **DANGEROUS** file in Umbridge’s office.

_Terrific._

She wonders how many different things can be killing inmates in this prison, all at the same time.

“Surviving Christmas is kind of an extreme sport around here,” says Faith. “Like, ho ho ho, oops, you’re dead.” She climbs down from her bunk and starts doing one-armed push-ups on the floor.

Spencer’s eyes go even wider. “Quinn said something once about people fighting at Christmas, but I thought it was over gifts or something.” It sounds even stupider when she says it out loud, so Spencer quickly adds, “Or she was kidding.”

“Sorry, chica. The only gift you get in here is to keep breathing.” Santana stretches out on her bed like a cat in the sun.

It’s just not making sense. “If they know who’s doing the killing, why don’t they stop her? Sue knows about this, right?” Spencer asks.

Faith grins devilishly and replies, “Who do you think’s giving the kill order?”

The blood drains from Spencer’s face.

“Fall in line and eat your Wheaties, Fistings,” Santana says, examining her fingernails. “Mommy’s always watching. You don’t want to be on the Naughty list this year.”

Given the fact that she’s already bristled Sue in her short time here, Spencer’s quite glad it’s only April. At least, she thinks it is. Chances are someone else will fuck up more than she has between now and then. Or she’ll get eaten by a killer spider first.

The wheels in Spencer’s brain are turning frantically. She’d been so focused on the pattern emerging since her arrival -- the Shark Week disappearances -- that she didn’t realize there were other patterns already in place. Like Santa Claus bringing murder each year to the bad little girls in space prison. It sounds too weird to be true. Just like Santa, himself.

“Who was it last year?” Santana asks Faith, needing a reminder.

“Kennedy. I hated that bitch”

_What kind of girl’s name is Kennedy?_

“No, that was the year before,” Santana says. “I specifically remember it was Quinn’s first Christmas, and Dark Willow wigged out and skinned everyone’s corn dogs, and this one chunk of bread flew right in her eye. Comedy gold.”

_Quinn…_

“Right, right. Then the year before that was Carmilla,” Faith says.

“Yep.”

“Carmilla?” Spencer asks with a look of disbelief. “You knew someone named _Carmilla_? That doesn’t sound made up to you?” Spencer asks incredulously.

They just ignore her. Faith says to Santana, “And Xena was the year before that. That’s right.”

“XENA?” Spencer cries. “Are you not hearing yourselves?”

This seems fucked up, even by space prison’s standards.

“Hey, Harvard,” Santana says. “How about dialing down the bitch-o-meter a few notches? We’re not all lucky enough to be named after a mall store.”

Rolling her eyes, Spencer tries to collect herself. If there’s a connection between Ripley and the string of disappearances, she’ll need to find out who was targeted four months ago. Even though right now, the thought of a _sixth_ murder in her case file is --

“You know, I think I missed her this year,” Santana says wistfully. “I enjoy a good thinning of the herd as much as the next bitch. As long as it’s not me,” she shrugs.

Faith agrees. “Katniss and I had this perfect hiding spot worked out.”

 _Katniss can kiss my ass_ , Spencer thinks. _But, hang on --_

“Wait, so, they _didn’t_ let Ripley out?” Now Spencer’s confused again. “Nobody died? That’s good, right?”

Santana shrugs. “Guess they finally got tired of the same old routine,” she says, propping her feet up on the bed frame.

“Holiday entertainment just isn’t what it used to be,” Faith sighs.

“True that.” The cell is quiet for a moment before Santana offers a new theory. “Maybe she finally rotted to death down in Solitary.”

“I thought I smelled something nasty at dinner the other day,” Faith quips.

“Tu madre.”

“Oh, you're eating my dead mother now?” Faith says playfully. “You should be so lucky.”

“Speaking of,” Santana prompts, and the girls laugh and resume their original game as Santana gives Starbuck two enthusiastic thumbs up. Spencer has a hundred more questions about the Ripley situation, but maybe, if there was more to know, her cellmates would’ve said so. They don’t seem too concerned, so Spencer wants to not be either. This place just continues to confound her. But if she’s in for another three hours of sex conversation, Spencer’s just going to bed. She learned to tune out the sound of Quinn’s spanking, and she can meditate through this, too.

“What about her little ex-girlfriend Kat?” Faith says, picking at a loose thread on her uniform.

Santana gives a _psshh_ and waves her hand. “I don’t even know why she’s in here. One small drug deal or something? Please. My abuela is scarier than that runt.”

Against her better judgment, Spencer rolls back over in her bunk to face them. Other than the gang in cell 10, this is the first she’s heard of inmates _not_ being murderers. Right now, any glimmer of hope that this place isn’t all terrible is a rabbit hole worth exploring. “Kat didn’t kill anyone?”

“Her?” Faith sneers.

They both laugh again, and Santana says, “Yeah, she’s a killer, and I’m Ronald McDonald.”

“You would be a fucking clown,” Faith mutters, amused.

“So, what’s she doing up here?” Spencer asks.

“Ding, ding, that’s the million-dollar question,” says Faith.

Spencer’s mind flashes to Quinn, who was, more than anything, an accessory to her cellmates’ crimes. Well, okay, hacking a bank is technically Not Good, but it’s nothing compared to Mack’s rampage. Quinn didn’t kill anyone that day. _Right?_ The thought gives her pause, but she pushes past it, because, no. She’d know. Quinn would’ve said something. She just teamed up with the wrong people. If anyone knows what that’s like, it’s Spencer.

“Hell, what are _you_ doing up here?” says Santana accusingly.

Spencer sits up. “I killed someone,” she states firmly. She also vaguely recalls something about counts of “excessive bitchery” but chooses not to share. It feels messed up enough to be defending her actions like this, trying to prove her place here, but nobody belittles Spencer Hastings uncontested.

“Just one?” asks Faith.

“...That’s not enough?”

“Okay, rich girl,” Santana says, clearly humoring her. “Enjoy your stay.”

She also hates being patronized.

There’s so much she wants to say, so many ways she wants to punch this girl in her stupid face. But Spencer's here to gather information, and she’s already learned a lot from these two. They’ve clearly have been around the block awhile. If she can keep her mouth shut, who knows how much more info she can get. Still, this imbalance of power is loathsome; they know they can gang up on her like this and make her feel stupid, but Spencer’s outnumbered, as always. She won’t press it any further today.

But now her mind is spinning with all kinds of new questions, like what changed with Ripley, or how many times she killed on Christmas before now, or what connection -- if any -- is there between that and Charlotte’s killings? Spencer couldn’t imagine an alliance between a spider and someone in Solitary, but anything seems possible in here at this point.

And what about all the individual stories of these women she’s slowly getting to know? There’s no way she can get herself transferred into every cell and meet them all before the proverbial uterine clock runs out. She’ll have to figure out if she needs to focus on the killers or the non-killers first. Maybe the non-killers have bigger secrets to hide.

Why the hell _is_ she here instead of in a regular prison? What is it about this place that draws this specific inmate population? What’s the common item on each person’s paperwork that makes some clerical assistant say, _“Ahh, TO SPACE WITH YOU!”_

She’d accepted her fate and laid it to rest weeks ago, but now the wound’s been opened again, and it’s just as painful. Spencer knows, deep down, that she won’t be able to move forward until her origin story is brought to light. She needs someone to blame, an object for her frustration. Maybe she’s been hoping she’d come across the magical answer to everything if she just looked hard enough. Maybe all of this digging around in the name of others has been selfishly motivated all along.

She lies on her back, staring up at the underside of the bed frame, and tries to lose herself in the surrounding vastness of space, but the crude laughter of her cellmates keeps her hopelessly grounded. Her mind repeats the same question, over and over, without end.

_How did I get here?_

****************

The next morning, about an hour before lunch, the **_ALL CLEAR_** sounds throughout the corridor, and Faith is leaping down from her bunk before Spencer can register what's happening. Her bed shakes as Faith's body lands on Santana's bunk, and all Spencer can hear are moans and wet smacking sounds and zippers.

She buries her head in her pillow, trying not to think about the fact that they haven’t showered in a week.

“Now, now, girls,” Lucy says, peering over from her bed. “Don't be rude.”

The movement stops, but Spencer doesn't know what's going on. And then Lucy's looking up at _her_.

“Come down.”

_Um._

“I'm fine here, thanks. Keep doing what you’re doing.”

Lucy tilts her head slightly. “So, you don’t want to be a part of our group? I thought that’s why you were here.”

The words catch her off-guard, like Lucy’s calling her bluff here in the open and Spencer’s got to show her hand. She never gave them any real reason for her transfer at the time, but it’s better that Lucy believe this than the truth. Spencer has to sell the story. “It is.”

Lucy stands up and takes a few steps toward Spencer’s bed, not breaking eye contact as she moves. “Prove it.”

And just like that, Spencer Hastings finds herself being double-dog-dared by the scariest girl in space prison.

Weighing her options, she realizes it's better to play along and earn their trust, even though they're probably going to kill her, anyway. She's locked in a room with them, so it's not like there's anywhere to hide.

It doesn't take nearly long enough to climb down to the floor. Spencer's got two feet on the ground and eyes on the quite compromising position of Faith on top of Santana, jumpsuits unzipped and boobs hanging out. It's quite the sight. Not that Spencer's staring.

“Right here,” Lucy says, back on her bed and patting the empty spot next to her.

Spencer sits down nervously, now front row for all the action, and it's awkward as hell, but she can't think of anything to do.

“We're ready,” Lucy says to them, and without missing another beat, Faith takes one of Santana's nipples into her mouth as her hands find the other breast.

_Okay, whoa._

Spencer's never been this uncomfortable in her life. What's she supposed to do, watch this? Provide commentary? Offer critique?

_Oh god..._

_Join in?!_

But then, Lucy's voice cuts in over the sound of her thoughts, saying, “They really do play so nicely together.”

That isn't exactly the word Spencer would use to describe it. It seems kind of...angry. The girls are tearing away each other's uniforms, pulling Santana’s zipper right off. There's a combination of moans and muffled cries of pain, as is probably from the claws in Faith's back, or maybe how hard Faith is yanking Santana's hair to fight for access to her neck. Spencer doesn't know how they're even staying on the bed at all.

“Spencer,” Lucy says.

Her voice sounds distant, like a dream, but Spencer eventually registers it and blinks. She's not sure if she can speak, so she simply turns to look at Lucy.

Lucy's eyes soften for a moment, and she says, “Do you think I'm pretty?”

Spencer blinks again. The question seems out of place, tonally, considering the symphony of sex and violence happening just a few feet away. It's hard not to look away from Lucy's eyes, but Spencer tries.

“Yeah. You're beautiful.”

What is she expected to do right now? Make some kind of move? Give Lucy a pep talk? Everything feels weird and out of place, and Spencer's deeply regretting this transfer with every fiber of her being. At least, she thinks. Because the way Lucy is looking at her is making –

“Do you want to kiss me?”

Lucy's voice is steady and strong, in stark contrast her expression. It almost feels like another dare. And Spencer hasn't taken a breath since she heard the word “kiss.” It's not that she hasn't thought about it, it's that she kind of hates herself for thinking about it. It takes her back to the bathroom and all the fear and humiliation and _Quinn_.

_God, Quinn._

The resemblance really is uncanny.

But Spencer isn't afraid of Quinn, not like she is of Lucy. Not even close. Spencer's afraid of _losing_ Quinn, and that makes all the difference.

And maybe, just maybe, if she can never have Quinn, she's afraid of losing herself in Lucy.

Spencer can't begin to know what she wants, but she knows Lucy's going to need an answer. What the hell is she supposed to say?

_I'd rather kiss your identical, less-deranged twin?_

Spencer swallows nervously and says the only thing she can. “Do you want me to?” Her voice is raspy, due to a sudden case of dry-mouth, but she manages to get the words out over the loud grunting to her left.

“I ask the questions,” Lucy says, steeling a bit. “You answer them.”

Spencer doesn't like ultimatums. And she sure as hell doesn't like relinquishing control. “Or what?”

Lucy takes a breath and turns to face Faith and Santana, watching distantly. “I have a lot of power here.” It isn't a threat, merely an observation. “I can share some of that with you. I _will_ share it with you.” She turns to look at Spencer. “If you share yourself in return.”

“What do you want to know?”

Lucy exhales a quiet laugh with a small smile. “Still asking questions. You'll learn.”

The fire rising in Spencer's chest is white hot, a conflation of anger and defiance and sexual tension that she can't begin to sort out. Exhaling hard and closing her eyes, she tries to re-center herself and remember why she's here in the first place.

Information.

Solve the mystery.

Try not to die.

And if that means going along with whatever Lucy Fabray wants, then, well. She just might have to give in.

 _“Oh yeah!”_  Santana's voice cuts through the air. _“Fuck me! Yeah...yeah...”_

There's nothing Spencer can do to tune it out, and she'd be lying if she said it wasn't getting her blood pumping. Flashes of Quinn dance in her mind, too distant to cling to, but too clear to ignore. And somehow, Lucy has those same intense, bottomless, hazel eyes that Spencer wants to drown in.

It's time to stop fighting.

“Yes,” she says, drawing Lucy's attention. “I want to kiss you.”

Lucy smiles, but it's _dangerous._ Predatory. “Good.”

There's something in those eyes that Quinn doesn't have. Something villainous.

_Fucking hell, why do I find that hot?_

“What else do you want to do?” Lucy asks somewhat playfully, but her tone makes it very clear that Spencer better answer the goddamn question.

_Make the pounding in my ears stop, for one._

_Trust that you won't slit my throat in my sleep._

_Go back to being cyber-stalked in Pennsylvania, because that was a cakewalk compared to this._

But if she's being honest with herself, Spencer doesn't want any of those things. And after all the lies, all the cloak and dagger, she wonders where a little truth might take her.

Go big or go...well. There is no going home. So, that makes her decision much simpler. “I want to have sex with you.”

The words almost feel romantic as they roll off her tongue – almost – but then there's another cry of _“Yeah! Fuck me! Yeah!”_ from the opposite bunk. The moment shatters, and Spencer's left feeling kind of cheap, like she's negotiating with an escort. But it's too late, it's out there. She said it.

And the scary part is, she meant it.

Lucy certainly seems pleased at the declaration, and she turns briefly to smile at the other girls, who are very naked and sweaty and making quite a go of it by now. Looking back at Spencer, Lucy shifts her body more to face her and takes one of Spencer's hands. She lightly strokes Spencer's fingers, weaving them together gently as Spencer opens to let her in. It's a delicate gesture, a tender touch. Nothing at all like what Faith's fingers are doing to Santana, but Spencer supposes there's time for that later.

Though, she's certainly wet enough for it now.

“Do you trust me?” Lucy asks. Judging from the look in her eyes, she couldn't be more serious.

“I...” But Spencer doesn't know. How could she trust a _convicted chainsaw murderer?_ The lunatic mind behind prison kindergarten art hour? The one who blabbed to the whole prison about her bungled sex with Quinn in the bathroom?

The same woman who's probably somehow responsible for killing at least four people just in the last few months?

Lucy can see her hesitation, but doesn't soften to appease her. “Choose your words carefully, Spencer. You get one per answer.”

_So, this is how it's going to go._

Lucy tightens the grip on Spencer's hand slightly. It's not painful, more of a warning to tread carefully. “Can you follow my rules?”

Spencer steels her resolve and squeezes back. “Yes.” She hasn’t lost her power as long as she still has the truth.

“Good. Girls who follow the rules get what they want.” Lucy raises an eyebrow to indicate the fornicators still banging away five feet from them. “Girls who don't follow the rules get punished.”

_Punished?!_

She’s taking this whole preschool teacher thing a bit too far, isn't she? What’s she going to do, put Spencer in time out? Ground her for a week? Bend her over her knee and sp--

Her mind jumps to Quinn and Mack, and she instantly closes that door.

“You will speak only when spoken to,” Lucy says. The look on her face implies Lucy is not fucking around.

For all Spencer knows, _“punish”_ could mean a lot of very terrible things to Lucy Fabray. It's time to start following the rules. No questions. One word at a time. “Okay.”

“I'll ask again, because this is very important, Spencer. I can't give you what I give them, can't give you what you want, unless we make our terms. Communication is very important in any kind of relationship.”

_Which is why I only get one-word answers. Sure._

_Wait -- relationship?!_

“So, I need to know, Spencer,” she continues, “before we can go any further – Do you trust me?”

Their eyes lock, and Spencer's head is spinning. It's either yes or no, make or break. Spencer takes a moment to think about everything she has, what little she has left of herself here in this place. Because she's about to give it all to Lucy Fabray, and Spencer has a feeling she might not ever get it back.

“Yes.”


	32. Lucy's Funhouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If smut is truly not your thing, you have my permission to skip ahead to chapter 34.  
>  
> 
> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

And just like that, Spencer has agreed to submit to Lucy Fabray.

Lucy's eyes light up, and she squeezes Spencer's hand again, lovingly this time. “I'm so glad to hear that. You and I are going to have so much fun together!”

If only Spencer shared that confidence. But, judging from the rollicking romp that's somehow still going over there, this doesn't look like the worst club to join. (It’s still better than Bees.) Santana's already come twice.

“Now,” Lucy says, “if I'm going to give you what you want, we need to establish some ground rules first. Your safety is important to me.”

_Yes, I'm sure you were the captain of your elementary school's safety patrol._

_Stop, drop, and roll…INTO MY CHAINSAW._

“What's your safeword?” Lucy asks.

Spencer's brow furrows. _Is this like a password or something?_   Like Lucy would say, _“Open sesame_ ,” and Spencer's legs would spread before her?

Lucy clarifies, “Something you would never usually say during sex. If I hear your safeword, I'll stop whatever I'm doing, no matter what. It's typically for if you're pushed beyond your limits. But you can also say it if you no longer consent to what’s happening.”

And now Spencer _really_ doesn't know what the hell she's gotten herself into.

“Faith's safeword is 'Giles,’ ” says Lucy, “which I think is some kind of demon. She said it was ‘the un-sexiest thing she could possibly think of.’ Santana's is 'fin', like a shark.”

Spencer opens her mouth to say something, but remembers she can only reply to the original question. Pausing to consider her answer, she finally says, “Lannister.”

“Lannister,” Lucy repeats. “That will work just fine.” Then, she tells the others, very much interrupting the moment, “Did you hear that, girls? Spencer's new safeword is 'Lannister’!”

“Roger,” Faith mutters in between panting breaths against Santana's neck. Her partner moans an incoherent reply.

“Great!” Lucy says. “Now that's settled. Mine is 'papier-mâché,' but I've never had to use it.”

Spencer nods in acknowledgment and wonders just how much weirder her day is about to get.

Lucy smiles again at her cellmates, who have now shifted so Santana can go down on Faith for a while. _(“Hey, no biting!”)_ But when she turns back to Spencer, it's clear that her attention is no longer divided. It's like they're the only two in the room.

“Spencer,” Lucy begins, meeting her eyes. “Now that we've established trust, I need for you to show me some. Can you do that?”

_Are you about to ask me to kill someone for you? Is this how the mafia works? Am I being Godfathered?_

“Sure.”

Lucy takes a breath. “May I kiss you?”

_...Oh._

It sounds more contractual than sexy, but Spencer feels the chill up her spine all the same. Things are about to happen, right here, right now. She nods and looks at Lucy’s mouth, watching for the slight movement toward her. She closes her eyes before it starts, but now the anticipation has her skin tingling. Spencer’s quite glad she's sitting down, because her knees would have given out by now.

“I have to hear you say it,” Lucy says sternly, and Spencer’s eyes open suddenly. “So there’s no doubt you want what you get.”

The conviction in Lucy's voice turns her on even more. Somehow, Spencer finds a little strength of her own and answers, “Yes.”

Lucy's body shifts now, scooting toward Spencer to close the space between them. Only…Lucy doesn’t kiss her. Instead, she glances down at Spencer's jumpsuit, as if unzipping it with her eyes. “May I touch you?”

It's such a simple question, but there isn't anything simple about this for Spencer. She can’t help but think about the last time someone negotiated consent with her. Quinn liked to use words, too, but it wasn't like this. Hers were words of power, putting Spencer in her place, but with an underlying kindness and sympathy. The look on her face as they touched was one of awe, like she couldn't believe they could feel so much intimacy for each other after such a short time.

But that isn't what Spencer sees in Lucy's eyes. No, this time it's the words that are laced with consideration and chivalry, spoken softly to reassure her safety. But Spencer can see flashes of power in those eyes, as if waiting just beneath the surface for the right moment to pounce. Spencer has to admit, both approaches are effective, as her damp uniform can attest. Lucy knows unequivocally what Spencer wants. She's just toying with her, drawing it out and proving it because she likes to.

Maybe Quinn and Lucy are alike after all. And the line between wanting Quinn versus wanting Lucy is blurring and mixing more and more with each passing second.

“Yes,” Spencer says.

Lucy's leaning in now, inches from Spencer's mouth but still not making contact. “May I put my fingers inside you?”

Spencer's eyes flutter closed at the breath against her lips, and she can barely hear herself whisper, _“Yes,”_  but her mind is screaming it. She repeats herself, stronger, just to be sure.

With one hand, Lucy takes hold of the zipper and starts to pull it down, slowly, carefully, not moving her face away from Spencer's. As their lips brush together ever so slightly, Spencer's breath hitches. Her body's paralyzed, quivering, and Spencer doesn’t know or care where the rest of the world has gone. It’s completely fallen away.

With a soft flicker of her tongue against Spencer's bottom lip, Lucy asks, “May I taste you everywhere?”

There's oxygen flowing into the cell’s air vents, but none of it is getting to Spencer. She wonders if Lucy can feel how fast she's breathing, how hard she's trembling. How absolutely weak she is at Lucy’s touch. Spencer shamefully remembers this isn't the first time she's melted into a puddle at Lucy's way with words, but at least this time it’s the start of something, not the end.

“Yes,” she exhales, but it's barely even a word. If Lucy doesn't kiss her soon, Spencer just might dissolve away into nothing.

_Why is this taking so long?_

But no, Lucy's not kissing her. Instead, she's moving over toward Spencer’s ear. Tracing a fingertip down her jawline on the opposite side, Lucy leans in and whispers, _“May I make you come?”_

Spencer’s posture collapses with a whimper as she tightens one hand around Lucy's and grabs a fistful of pink uniform with the other. She fights to find Lucy's mouth, but Lucy's stronger than she looks, and she keeps Spencer at a painful distance. Without releasing the pressure against Spencer’s collarbone, she tilts Spencer’s chin up so they’re again eye to eye.

“I said,” Lucy repeats, “may I make you come?”

 _“Yes,”_  Spencer pants desperately, self-aware of how pathetic she sounds. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters right now except needing Lucy's mouth and hands and body all over her. She pushes as hard as she dares against the hand at the base of her neck but gains no ground.

Lucy releases hold of Spencer’s chin and traces fingers up to her forehead, gently brushing aside the strands of hair there. It's tender, and there's a loving look in Lucy's eyes as she watches her movements. Her fingers follow across and down the side of Spencer's face, over her ear, and come to rest cupping the back of her head. As Lucy leans down toward Spencer's lips, she suddenly tightens her fingers around a fistful of Spencer's hair, pulling it taut and maintaining a distance between them.

Spencer gasps, surprised both by the act itself and how much it hurts.

She likes it.

Lucy's got Spencer leaning back at an angle as she hovers over her prey. Right where Lucy wants her. The eyebrow rises again as Lucy asks, thick with insinuation, “Are you going to be a good girl and follow the rules while I do?”

Spencer’s back arches a bit at the words _“good girl,”_  like she’s already fighting the notion. There’s nothing angelic about this situation and nothing innocent about her anymore. Being turned on by fear is what led her into Toby's arms years ago, and part of why she killed him, and why she has now bedded two convicted felons in as many months. Being bad feels really damn good sometimes. And Spencer’s going to do what Lucy says because she knows she shouldn’t.

“Yes.”

The world comes crashing down as Lucy's mouth finally meets hers. Lucy and Quinn may have the same skin, the same eyes, the same voice, but there is no doubt Spencer is kissing someone new. Spencer opens her mouth wider, discovering the taste of Lucy Fabray and wanting more and more. Lucy’s tongue grazes across hers, and Spencer fights against the hand still wrapped tightly in her hair, wanting more of it, wanting so much at once.

But no, she doesn’t get to move unless Lucy wills it. Fortunately, Lucy pulls her down soon after and leads her to lie fully back on the bed. Spencer feels Lucy's weight carefully lower onto her, but it's not cumbersome. It's warm and comfortable. Just enough pressure to make Spencer know she’s trapped. Just enough pressure to make her want more.

She reaches for Lucy's face as they kiss, needing to feel the softness and pull her closer, but Lucy immediately grabs Spencer's wrist at the touch and pulls her away. The kiss freezes for a moment in Spencer’s shock at the rejection. But Lucy begins again tenderly as she moves Spencer's hand further out of the way.

_Am I not allowed to touch you?_

_What did I do wrong?_

This “no talking” thing is getting harder.

Lucy tightens her grip on Spencer's hair harder, breaking the kiss, and Spencer's eyes drift open, meeting Lucy's gaze again. She’s so goddamn beautiful. Spencer wants to be everywhere at once, touching and connecting and feeling. Instead, Lucy moves Spencer's errant hand back to reach the bar on the bed frame, releasing her fingers to curl them around the cold metal.

“Don't let go. Do you understand?” The command is clear, as is the threat behind it.

“Yes,” Spencer says.

But that's only one of her hands, and she doesn't know what she's supposed to do with the other one, or _allowed_ to do, and she's desperate to feel the softness of Lucy's skin beneath her fingers.

Lucy kisses her again, and Spencer's lost in the sensation of Lucy's breasts against her own, feeling the way their legs shift against each other to find safe passage. And then they've each got a knee where it matters most, and they're pushing, pressing, and Spencer moans in need against Lucy's lips. Her hand finds Lucy's back, slipping down to her ass to pull her closer, and –

With one swift move, Lucy breaks the kiss, yanks Spencer's hair, and wraps her other hand around Spencer's neck. Spencer's free hand jerks away while the one gripping the bar holds on for dear life. Her instinct is to push the aggressor off of her, but that might only make it worse. Lucy's not actually choking her – yet – but it wouldn't take much more pressure to impact her air flow. It's an assertive hold -- corrective. Spencer can still breathe, but it hurts, just enough. She’s supposed to learn from this mistake.

“You don't have permission to touch me,” Lucy says into Spencer's frightened eyes. “You have to earn it.”

Without breaking eye contact, Lucy releases the grip on her hair to move Spencer's other hand to the bed frame. She's not technically tied up, but she might as well be. The fingers around Spencer’s neck tighten as the change is made, and Lucy’s stare intensifies as well. Spencer takes hold of the dirty metal, shifting her body until she's more comfortable. But it's hard to get comfortable, exactly, when you're being choked by a murderer. And when your clothing is soaked through because of it.

Spencer feels more vulnerable now that her sides are on display, and she wonders if Lucy's about to snap out of Crazy Dominatrix mode and tickle her. But, no, once Spencer's situated and the power balance is restored, Lucy releases the hold on her neck and begins unzipping Spencer's uniform, slowly.

Lucy’s not looking at her, but Spencer doesn’t look away from her face. The helplessness of her situation is intoxicating, this relinquishing control. She really has no choice but to wait for whatever is coming.

And of course, now her nose starts to itch.

 _Great_.

Lucy's eyes follow the small piece of metal down, down, until she’s looking just below Spencer's navel. There's a quiver as she comes to a halt, and Spencer shifts to watch Lucy's hands now, because god only knows what they're going to do next.

As if merely pulling back the curtains on a sunny day, Lucy opens Spencer's uniform to expose her bra, then leans back again. She sits straddling Spencer's legs, examining the scene and thinking, but Spencer doesn't know what she's waiting for. Unless the waiting is the point.

“When I release you,” Lucy says, “you may let go of the bar. You have ten seconds to strip down and resume your position. Can you do that, Spencer?”

It seems reasonable enough, assuming she still remembers how to move her limbs. And how clothes work. It's occurring to Spencer that this crossed over from “strategy for gathering valuable intel” to “I am so sincerely into you” miles and miles back. She just doesn't know when. Or care.

“Yes.”

Lucy shifts back to sit at the end of the bed, wholly untangled from her partner. “Now.”

There's no verbal clock, but Spencer's counting loudly in her head, frantically sliding her bra over her head and kicking off the uniform. It's hardly a graceful process, but it doesn't need to be. She's back in place, naked, nose thoroughly scratched and hands on the bar, with three seconds to spare.

“Good girl. That's much better, don't you think?”

For various definitions of “better,” perhaps, but none that Spencer knows. She’s both cold and sweaty at the same time, and suddenly very aware she hasn’t shaved anything in a long while. If she felt self-conscious sixty seconds ago, it's nothing compared to this – fresh meat on a spit, on display for hungry eyes.

Lucy's looking her up and down like she's trying to decide what to sink her teeth into first. But then she simply says, “Watch me.”

Getting off the bed, Lucy walks over to stand right next to Spencer's face. Spencer can feel Lucy's eyes on her, but she's watching the way the pink jumpsuit's zipper lowers one inch at a time. It ends almost at eye level, and Spencer's breath catches in her throat. She can see the shadows of Lucy's breasts, though the light's bad from this angle. It's the proximity that's affecting her now. That, and the fact that she's not allowed to do anything about it.

And then the jumpsuit slides gracefully off Lucy's shoulders and falls to the floor in a soft ruffle. Spencer can hear the sound -- and notices it. It's suddenly very quiet in the cell. Too quiet. She looks around Lucy’s hip to see Faith and Santana sitting casually on their bed, side by side, watching the show.

Santana fucking _waves,_ _“Hi!”_ with a cheesy grin as Faith muffles a laugh.

_Outstanding._

_I'm a zoo exhibit._

Spencer wants to snap back at them, but it's not worth it, not right now. Even if their mockery is against the rules, she doesn't want to break the moment. It’s hard to think about anything else when Lucy's in just a bra and underwear, standing so close to Spencer's face that she can smell her.

Spencer's eyes flutter closed as she takes a steadying breath, realizing, _yeah_ , whatever Lucy's doing to her is absolutely working. Which is funny, considering Lucy's barely done anything at all.

That needs to change.

Fortunately, Lucy seems to agree and repositions herself on top of Spencer's legs. Reaching forward, she places one fingertip on Spencer's mouth, silencing her. It’s a gentle action. “I like you, Spencer,” she says.

Spencer doesn't know if she should react. Her legs shift instinctively to open wider, but she fights to hold them still. Very little of her body is within her control right now. Spencer’s lips open slightly, maybe to let air out, maybe to let Lucy’s finger in. But Lucy’s hand is already leaving, trailing down her chin onto her neck.

“You're very strong. I like that.”

The fingertip grazes between her breasts, painfully slowly, and across her stomach before coming to a rest at the edge of dark hairs. Instead of continuing down, Lucy removes her hand entirely with a daring grin.

Spencer opens her legs wider, pleading silently, desperate for contact. She can't see Lucy's hands anymore, but suddenly she feels what must be two light fingertips tracing up along either side of her most sensitive skin. A gasp escapes before she can bite it back. Luckily that doesn't seem to violate their speech code, because Lucy's repeating the action, grazing upward ever so delicately, over and over in circles.

Spencer buries her face into her raised arm, biting her lip hard and breathing heavily. She's lost any remaining shreds of dignity and doesn’t give a fuck. Her knees are practically at her chest, not just granting Lucy full access to her body, but begging for it. The metal bar is Spencer's lifeline, clutched firmly in sweaty fists, and the only thing grounding her and keeping her from floating away. Lucy must have known exactly how much Spencer would need something to hold on to. Though, five more minutes of this and Spencer's going to pull the bar right out of the frame.

Through the rising pulse pounding in her head, Spencer hears Lucy's voice. “Do you know what I like to do to strong women, Spencer?”

She squeezes her eyes shut tight, biting into her shoulder and trying not to cry. Spencer can think of a hundred things she needs Lucy to say right now, things she needs _so very badly._

_Say my name again._

_Keep touching me._

_Tell me how strong I am._

_Make me believe it._

_Make me come._

_PLEASE._

But no, she's only allowed one word, and it's honest. “No.”

Her voice is shaking along with her fragile body. She's never known fear and want could mix like this, not with Toby or even with Quinn. But then, when the hand withdraws and the touch is gone, Spencer dares to open her eyes.

Lucy is leaning in close, as if she was waiting for Spencer to look at her. “Break them.”

The words fall like a weight on Spencer’s chest, pushing all air out of her lungs. Possibilities cloud her mind with darkness and Spencer's heart stops, just momentarily, until she's brought back by a surge of sensation ripping through her body. Lucy's two fingers drive into her, hard, and Spencer's back arches high off the mattress again as she cries out. She pushes against Lucy's hand, holding the bar for dear life, because there must be a way to get even more of Lucy inside of her. She feels a supporting hand on her lower back as Lucy shifts to straddle her right leg, and now Lucy's pulling Spencer's body closer without relinquishing her hold.

“You like this, don't you?” Lucy asks, punctuating the question with a firm press deep inside her.

Spencer throws her head back and moans again, eyes clenched tight, and says _“Yes!”_ a bit louder than she means to. Self-control isn't exactly her forte at the moment.

Lucy's working Spencer firmly, aided by the wetness her questions induced. But she's not moving in a steady rhythm or pattern. It's clear she knows what she's doing, hitting all the right spots with quick bursts of strength and maintaining enough speed to make Spencer's blood boil. Minute after minute, Lucy continues to fuck her, relentlessly, passionately. But Lucy's not letting Spencer get too comfortable. She's keeping her edge, keeping the power.

If Lucy lets her relax and feel safe, Spencer might come.

Right as this realization hits her, the motion stops. Lucy withdraws only for a moment as she shifts her body forward to sit on Spencer's stomach. It would be easier without the top bunk in her way, but it forces Lucy’s face closer to Spencer’s. Dangerously close.

“Now,” Lucy begins. Her eyes trace over Spencer's breasts, and her left hand drags a fingertip along their path. “Since I'm being so generous and giving you all the things you want” – she pinches Spencer's nipple tightly, and Spencer gasps in high pitch – “I think it's time you showed some appreciation.”

_Oh god, anything._

_Please._

_Yes. Anything._

_Whatever you want._

_Please let me touch you._

It's all a blur in Spencer's head – everything she wants to do to Lucy, everything she still wants Lucy to do to her, everything she never got to do with Quinn...there's just too much. It's overwhelming. And she doesn't know if her clit has ever throbbed so intensely, desperate for attention.

Lucy's finger traces up to Spencer's neck and reclaims a choking hold on it, but tighter this time. It's a warning, and it gets Spencer's attention immediately. She meets Lucy's eyes, and she doesn't know how she's not supposed to lose herself entirely in them.

“Tell me the truth,” Lucy says, staring right through her. “You asked to be moved here, didn't you?”

Spencer's mouth goes dry. There's nowhere she can hide. And right now, she's too worked up to even consider lying. What's a little more vulnerability when she's already completely compromised?

“Yes.”

Lucy smiles knowingly. “I thought so.” Her eyes look over Spencer’s neck and face, examining every inch of her. “You belong to me now, Spencer,” she says. But it's not a threat. It's soft, like a piece of news shared between friends. It makes the hairs on the not-choked part of Spencer's neck stand up all the same. “I will make you feel so good. I think you know now that I can.” Without breaking eye contact, Lucy reaches her right hand back, all the way until she finds Spencer's wetness again, making sure she brushes nothing above it. She clearly doesn't want to give Spencer any undue satisfaction, not yet.

But Lucy doesn't go in, merely hovers her fingertips at the entrance, teasing with little traces and flicks. Spencer licks her lip and bites it, eyes pressed closed. Another weak whimper escapes when Lucy’s fingertip grazes a sensitive spot.

“Tell me you want me,” Lucy says, pressing harder down on Spencer's neck. It's vertical pressure, pinning Spencer to the bed more than choking her. She can breathe, she just can't move.

“Yes,” Spencer says, wondering if Lucy can feel the heart pounding against her hand.

“It wasn't a question,” Lucy says angrily, now tightening the chokehold and withdrawing her right hand entirely.

Spencer blinks, confused, but then realizes Lucy's meaning. The rules have now changed. She's been promoted to full sentences.

“I want you,” Spencer says. It's weak and dry-mouthed, almost raspy, but Lucy hears it.

“Louder.”

_YOU’RE STRANGLING MY WINDPIPE._

Spencer takes as deep a breath as she can and says, clearer, looking back into Lucy's eyes, “I want you.”

Suddenly, there’s a loud clanging noise just a few feet away, like banging on the bars. Spencer jolts, turning her head toward the cell door in alarm. She feels much more exposed now that she’s pulled out of the moment, but to her relief, there’s no one there.

_It must’ve come from next door._

Spencer tries to settle back in and refocus on Lucy, but she can’t shake the weird feeling. Something’s different now.

Retaking control of the situation, Lucy begins tracing her finger around Spencer’s entrance once more, tenderly. But the predatory look in her eyes doesn’t make Spencer feel any safer. “Say it again.”

“I want you,” Spencer repeats, a little louder this time, though it's hard to fucking focus when Lucy's doing _that_.

“Where do you want me, Spencer?” Lucy asks, giving extra flicks of her fingertips. “Say it.”

“I want,” Spencer starts, but it's hard when Lucy isn't loosening her grip, “you inside me.”

Lucy lifts that very dangerous eyebrow and moves her fingers slowly inside. “Here?” she asks.

Spencer exhales at the movement, one step closer to release, and nods. “Yes.”

Lucy keeps moving inward until the full length of her fingers is inside Spencer. She bends her two fingers, curling to take hold. She mirrors the pressure by strengthening her hold on the base of Spencer’s neck as well. “Here?” she asks, pressing hard on Spencer's G-spot.

“Yes, please,” she pants, blinking against the spots in her blurred vision. The explosion of colors isn’t only hiding behind her eyelids anymore. “Please, Lucy. Please.”

Lucy looks into Spencer's eyes, more discerning this time. She slides back out before pushing inward and up once more, probably with three fingers, almost lifting Spencer off the mattress with her force. Lucy holds her down with the simultaneous pressure on her chest. “Are you sure?”

Spencer cries out as her head dips back, and she doesn't know how much longer she can take this without release.

Lucy withdraws her right hand and wipes it on the sheet discreetly. She brings a finger up to gently stroke Spencer's forehead, tucking the loose strands of hair behind her ear. It's a loving motion in stark contrast to the hand still firmly around her neck, and Spencer knows there's going to be a lasting bruise, if there isn't already. Then, without warning, Lucy takes Spencer's throat in both hands, sliding them up so her thumbs are outstretched, digging sharply under Spencer's chin, forcing her head all the way back. She's practically holding Spencer at knifepoint.

It hurts, and Spencer can't speak or Lucy's thumbs will just dig in even harder. She lashes out with one of her legs, but it's a weak gesture, more instinct than anything. Spencer’s too scared to use any real strength to fight against what Lucy’s doing. If she's being truly honest, she doesn't want to, anyway.

Lucy gives a pleasant smile, leaning over to whisper in Spencer's ear. “The problem is... _I don't believe you.”_

_What?! Why not?_

“I do!” Spencer starts to say, but there's nowhere for her jaw to move. She's completely at Lucy's mercy. And her captor is staring her down harder than ever.

“Don't lie to me.” All sundries and politeness are gone now. The look in Lucy's eyes is cold and unforgiving.

Spencer's certain now that this is how she's going to die.

Naked, strangled to death, and dripping wet. In space.

“I know what you want,” Lucy says, pressing a little harder. She's examining her prey again, planning her attack. “But since you're lying to me, I don't think I want to give it to you.”

Spencer's eyes are pleading, screaming for Lucy to release her – one way or another. But she doesn't know what else she can do. This has gone from bad to worse, fast.

And then, Lucy shifts her hands again, releasing Spencer's throat. Now, one hand is tangled tight in Spencer's hair again and the other moves to her breast. With a calculated look, she takes Spencer's nipple between her fingertips and squeezes, watching it carefully. She doesn't meet Spencer's eyes when she says, “Tell me the truth. Beg for it.”

The pinch sends a jolt through Spencer's body as her back arches again, pushing hard against Lucy's weight holding her stomach down. If she could think clearly, maybe she'd know what the hell she's supposed to be begging _for,_ exactly.

For her freedom?

For the right to touch her?

For the right to scratch that itchy spot on her head that's driving her crazy?

For Lucy to fuck her into oblivion?

...For her _life?_

Every sensation coursing through Spencer right now, from the pull of her hair to Lucy's breath against her face and the electricity in her skin, it's all channeling between her legs, and Spencer might cry from need if Lucy keeps drawing this out. But then, that might be what Lucy's been wanting the whole time.

Spencer's out of options. She's completely at Lucy's mercy. _“Please,”_ she whimpers, barely above a whisper. “Please, Lucy.”

Another nipple tweak, this time the most painful yet. “Please _what?”_

“Please...” But Spencer can't think, can't focus, she just needs pressure, _now_. “Touch me…there,” she says, her lip trembling as she tries to hold herself together. She doesn’t want to use the words. She just wants this to happen like it’s supposed to. _“Please.”_   The tears start to brim, but Lucy isn't changing her position. Spencer's about to have a total breakdown. “I need to…I need you so much.”

She hears the words but doesn't realize they've come from her mouth until Lucy's face changes. And then it's too late to take them back, too late to explain them away with a line. But there is no explanation, anyway, because it's absolutely true.

Lucy lets go of Spencer with both hands, reaching instead to cup her cheek as Lucy brings their lips together. There's a different energy this time, like Lucy is trying to give her something instead of take something away. Spencer feels Lucy’s long hair falling against her chest; it drags along her sensitive skin as she moves. It’s a new feeling, one Spencer likes very much.

But then, Lucy's lips break away, _again_ , and Spencer wonders why this is happening to her, why she's being put through this. She's so wrapped up in her frustration that she doesn't see Lucy scooting down, placing herself between Spencer's legs. But suddenly Spencer’s thighs are being pushed up and apart, and Lucy's tongue is dragging its way through the pool of wetness to where Spencer needs it most.

Squeezing the bed frame with the last of her remaining strength, Spencer pushes forward, meeting Lucy halfway, and the pressure against her clit – _this_ – is what she needed most.

Lucy was right.

Spencer moans at the sensation, wanting so much to bury her hands in Lucy's hair but not wanting to ruin this now by breaking the rules. Her arms are heavy and numb, and they hurt from the lack of circulation, but it doesn’t matter as long as Lucy doesn’t stop. Spencer buries her face in her bicep, both to muffle her pathetic cries and to hide just how much this is affecting her. It's written all over her face; she can feel it. Just like how she can feel Lucy's tongue circling, and grinding, and circling again. Relentlessly.

And then two fingers are back inside of her, pumping in time with Lucy's tongue. All the tension from the last hour – hell, from the last two months – is reaching critical mass, and Spencer can feel it rising. She closes her eyes and drowns in the feeling as her mind drifts to Quinn, then back to Lucy, and back to Quinn again. Everything's conflating and swirling together. There's sweat dripping down her legs, and she's tightening inside, and, god, Spencer _wants_ this so badly.

It’s been at least ten minutes now, but Lucy hasn't slowed down. Eventually she pauses and adjusts her position, and Spencer takes the moment to catch her breath, looking down to catch the hungry eyes staring back at her.

Lucy flicks her tongue out, nicking Spencer's clit once, before she says, “Don't come yet.” Her voice is stern; it's unquestionably a command.

Spencer's frustration is too much at the surface to push it back down now. She groans, almost angrily, clenching the metal frame as tightly as she can. _“Please!”_

Lucy hooks the two fingers back in and pulls hard, drawing a pained cry from Spencer, and says, “Count back from ten.”

It feels patronizing, elementary, but Spencer does it anyway. If it means she's guaranteed her orgasm, she'll count in Japanese if Lucy wants.

“Ten...” Spencer says, and Lucy's tongue presses against her aching clit once more. “Nine...” She's not counting fast, to let her body catch up. “Eight...” Her mind takes her far away, out of this shitty cell, across the stars, where all she can feel is how fucking _good_ Lucy's face feels between her legs. “Seven...” She imagines those eyes watching her, burning into her, but Spencer keeps her own shut tight. “Six...” Her breathing is unsteady, and it’s hard to think about stupid things like numbers when there's such important friction getting faster and faster. “F-Five...” Lucy settles into a rhythm that Spencer's riding like a surfboard, and she's starting to feel the swell of the wave approaching.

She can already tell it's going to suffocate her.

But then, it's not her own voice anymore that's counting -- it's Quinn's. The mental image is clear. Pink hair tickles Spencer's cheek as Quinn whispers, _“Give us everything_.” The sensation of Quinn's tongue circling Spencer's ear, matching time with Lucy's motions on her clit, starts a fire inside Spencer that might burn down the prison. _“You know you want to.”_ Quinn’s words fill her head and don’t fade away.

“Four,” Spencer pants. The tingling starts in her back and stretches down to her toes. Even if Spencer could stop it, she doesn't want to. “Three...” Saying the number solidifies the image in her mind -- Lucy and Quinn both there with her, wanting her, touching her. And with that, the rush fills Spencer up and she can't take any more. Her body tenses to prepare for the oncoming shockwave.

But before it hits, Lucy withdraws completely, breaking all contact. She sits up and maintains her distance, watching as the body beneath her jerks and contracts.

Spencer cries out again in frustration, still holding on to the goddamn metal frame. She twists and pulls her knees up, pressing her thighs together tightly, as if that would somehow create the pressure she needs. But it's useless. As quickly as it came, the wave passes her by, and the half-orgasm is quick and weak and unfulfilling. Spencer's not even sure she had it at all, but her body relaxes, indicating a chemical release.

After everything she just endured -- the _torture_ of waiting, only for her sexual frustration to be wasted – Spencer’s desire quickly shifts to anger and disappointment. She opens her eyes and looks at Lucy, suddenly more aware of how wet and messy she is now that the energy has dissipated. She's just a naked girl on a prison bed with an audience and nowhere to hide.

“What was _that?”_ she asks.

Lucy stands without a word and picks up the crumpled pink heap from the floor. She slips the jumpsuit back on, zips it up, and fixes her hair, then walks back to Faith and Santana. “Does anyone feel like painting?”

“Are you serious right now?!” All three girls turn to look at Spencer. “That's it?” she continues. “After all that. You just STOP?”

Lucy's eyes narrow as she takes two steps forward, until she's casting a shadow on Spencer's face. “You broke the rules.”

Spencer’s eyes widen in disbelief at the absurdity of this, that she was flat-out denied what she literally begged for – repeatedly! _–_ because she couldn't hold on for two more seconds. Spencer finally releases the frame and sits up, leaning over for her clothes on the floor.

Lucy's expression hardens, eyes blazing. “I didn't say you could let go.”

“Yeah, well, too bad. Game's over. I guess I lost.” Spencer slips on her bra and steps into the black jumpsuit. It's still damp, and she's even more pissed she still doesn't have underwear.

Lucy's eyes are widening now, as if surprised by the act of defiance.

“I wouldn't do that,” Faith offers casually, picking at something on her arm.

Lucy reaches down and grabs Spencer's chin, pulling upward until she their eyes meet. “We're not done until _I say_ so.”

“Yeah?” Spencer pushes Lucy's hand away to free her face from the grip. “Well, I didn't agree to that. Go play sadist with one of them.” She turns to face the wall, curling into a ball. She knows it's stupid to be acting like this, to be angering someone so dangerous and crazy, but she can't help it. Spencer just wants to be left alone, to close her eyes and make all of this go away.

And then she remembers that she's on Lucy's bed.

_Godfuckingdamnit._

In a huff, she sits up quickly and escapes off the bunk, silently grateful that Lucy doesn't grab her or stab her or whatever else as she passes by. Faith and Santana exchange looks of disbelief and amusement, and Santana tuts with a wave of her finger, as if to say, _You shouldn't have done that._

Spencer ignores her, pulling herself up to the top bunk and reclaims her fetal position.

“I'll remember this, Spencer,” comes the threatening voice from behind her.

_Yeah, so will I._

It takes a few minutes before Spencer stops shaking, but she's eventually convinced that Lucy's no longer standing there watching her.

“Nine of clubs,” Santana says knowingly from below. “It’s never wrong.”

They fall back into random conversation, and Spencer lets her eyes close when it seems safe enough to drop away. Humiliated and exhausted, she can’t help but replay the events over and over in her mind. Fortunately, the limbo period for sleep isn't nearly as long or withholding.


	33. Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

The next week is...strange, to say the least.

Now that the red cloud is lifted, so to speak, Spencer’s cellmates seem to be on this perpetual sex bender, like it’ll go out of style if they so much as come up for air. Spencer hasn’t been invited, so she’s left bearing witness to the Smut Festival as it plays on and on; the accidental voyeur.

Santana has taken on the role of Orgasm Machine, endlessly dispensing rewards to girls who reach a hand in. Spencer almost wishes she had a stopwatch so she could calculate Santana’s average rate, because, if she’s not faking it, it’s got to be a world record. Or, off-world record. Not that Spencer’s jealous or anything.

Meanwhile, Faith, she thinks, would make a great dental hygienist. She’s clearly comfortable in the assistant role and has a certain fascination with mouths and teeth. If she’s not putting her tongue into Santana’s mouth, she’s inserting her fingers or nipple or whatever else she can fit in there.

Though, Spencer muses, most dental hygienists don’t sit on their patient’s faces at the end of the appointment.

Probably.

Lucy’s certainly the power player in the equation, the last one naked and the last one touched, always in charge of every scene. The rules seem to change depending on her mood, or maybe on the day -- Spencer can’t tell yet. Sometimes it’s tender and genuine, other times it’s rough and borderline violent. Most days they’re loud, not holding anything back, but occasionally the rule is not to make a sound.

One thing is always the same, however: They never use Santana’s bunk, because they want Spencer to see them.

She’s resisting as much as she can. After two days of lying on her side uncomfortably facing the wall, Spencer’s arm and shoulder couldn’t take it anymore. Staring at the ceiling wasn’t any better. So, eventually she gave up trying to hide from it and now tries to pretend it’s just not happening. If she can push past the shock factor, she’ll get used to it. It could even grow boring. It’s scientific fact – too much of anything gets old at some point.

Only, these girls might be the exception that proves the rule.

Lucy’s caught Spencer watching on multiple occasions. It’s always that same sly smirk and the raised eyebrow; the way Lucy runs her tongue along her lip and drives her fingers harder into Santana as if to say, _“Don’t you wish I was doing this to you, instead?”_

But she doesn’t. Really.

It’s morbidly intriguing, the way Santana gets her leg behind her head like that, or how Faith’s shoulder doesn’t dislocate pumping that hard for so long, or wondering what awful names Lucy will call them next or how she’ll make them play her stupid power trip games. Spencer’s grossed out and frustrated and livid that she got herself put into this Fuck Factory in the first place, but the last thing she feels is jealous.

Except, well. That’s a lie.

She’s _insanely_ jealous.

Unless it’s all just a very, _very_ convincing and well-performed show, the sex sounds mind-blowing, and Spencer hasn’t had anything like that since Quinn in the bathroom, what, a month ago? Longer? Every day seems the same up here, making it very difficult to track time. She doesn’t even trust her own monthly cycle as an indicator anymore. Everything is wrong, and she never gets anything she needs, and why won’t they just STOP MOANING, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST.

Spencer lets out a long overdue scream of frustration into her pillow, folding her arms over her head and pulling fistfuls of her hair tight. She doesn’t want to cry over this, she really, really doesn’t, but thinking about not wanting to just makes her start anyway.

_Why can’t the spider come put me out of my misery already?_

****************

Dinner is a brief reprieve from the Orgy of the Elite, but it also means seeing Quinn, and that’s hardly any easier to endure. Her face -- that beautiful, gorgeous fucking face -- is literally everywhere. Spencer can’t escape it. Yet, there’s a clearer difference between them now, more than just their hair and uniforms. There’s a distance in Quinn’s eyes that Spencer hasn’t seen before, and she flinches a bit at first sight, even across the expanse of the Mess Hall.

Their eyes meet, but Quinn looks right through her.

It’s like Spencer’s not even there, not standing awkwardly in the aisle with her tray in hand, mouth hanging open as she clumsily grasps at words to say. But then she feels a sharp shoulder jut into her back, knocking her aside with a curse to let the others pass by, and Spencer blinks to regain her center of reality. When she looks back, Quinn’s engrossed in conversation with Aphasia and Mack, decidedly uninterested and a world away.

“Let’s _go_.” Santana rolls her eyes and grabs Spencer’s tray to set it on the table. When Spencer doesn’t sit down, Santana reaches a finger into the small pile of peanut butter on Spencer’s tray, hooks a sizeable glop, and brings it into her mouth, sucking hard and moaning as she slowly retracts.

The awkward noise gets her attention. “Hey,” Spencer says, finally noticing what’s happening. She sits down and moves her tray closer in front of her, guarding it with her arm. But she’s not really hungry; Spencer just slumps over her food and pokes at it with her plastic spork.

It’s quiet for a moment between them, though the typical hum of conversation continues to buzz all around. Spencer tries to dip a pretzel stick into the uncontaminated sections of her peanut butter, because she knows exactly where Santana’s finger has been today. The very thought makes her lose her appetite altogether, and she crushes the pretzel in her hand instead. It seems like a good idea, but now she’s covered in crumbs.

“Look,” Faith offers, “whatever went down between you and Pink Panther” -- she takes a pretzel stick off Spencer’s tray and manages to scoop most of the remaining peanut butter onto it -- “it’s ancient history now.” She shovels the peanut butter into her mouth and says, “I never did like that class,” while chewing.

“Well, I like history,” Spencer says, running a hand through her hair. “I’m good at history.”

“Maybe that’s why you suck at letting things go,” Santana says. “Hey, I know how good that fruit tastes, believe me.” Spencer glares in a neutral direction to avoid shoving the last pretzel stick into Santana’s eye. “But she’s not worth all of these…” Santana gestures her hand at Spencer’s whole aura, face furrowed in a scowl. “... _feelings_. Ew.”

Spencer picks up the roll and takes a forceful bite. With all this frustration, it feels good to rip her teeth into something. Even if Santana’s right, Spencer’s not there yet, and she’s not going to let anyone else, let alone _Santana_ , dictate her emotions.

“Perhaps it’s time we remind Spencer who her real friends are now,” Lucy says carefully.

“Oh, you’ve decided to talk to me now?” Spencer spits. After days of ignoring her and forcing her to sit through their rampant sex sessions, this is the first thing Lucy’s said to her. And of course, it’s just more bullshit. Spencer rips the rest of her roll into pieces as she keeps talking. “Have I finally gotten pathetic enough for you? Is this what you’ve been waiting for?”

“Consider your tone, Spencer,” Lucy says evenly, fighting to keep a steeled expression. It’s the most she’s ever looked like Quinn, and that only makes things worse.

“Yes, god forbid people know I’m actually upset about something. God forbid they know I’m not happy in _prison_. God fucking forbid I want to have a real connection with someone, and that person isn’t you.” Spencer’s voice is rising, but she doesn’t care anymore. “But maybe you have some constructive ideas on how I should deal with my _feelings?_ Cut her in half, maybe? Will that do it? Or should I do some fingerpainting? Is that better? Did you bring your FUCKING PLAY-DOH?”

Her outburst has gained quite the audience, both from their table and behind, as all eyes are on Lucy. Now that Spencer’s stopped talking, the ramifications are setting in with the silence. She just challenged the most powerful prisoner in space, and god only knows what’s going to happen next. Hopefully, she’ll remember how to breathe at some point. Her body is vibrating, maybe from adrenaline, maybe from life-threatening fear.

Spencer sees a montage of scenes flash in her mind as she waits for her punishment. Lucy, reaching across the table to choke her until she blacks out, maybe as Santana pins Spencer’s hands behind her so she can’t fight back. Lucy, marching over and laying Quinn out with a single punch, maybe knocking out a few teeth so Quinn has something to remember her by. Lucy, dragging Spencer over to Quinn and forcing her on her knees, ordering her to profess her love here in front of everyone. Or worse, Quinn, laughing at her and then never speaking to her again. Every possibility is as humiliating as the last.

Bringing herself to meet Lucy’s eyes, Spencer braces for the oncoming storm. The cafeteria has never seemed so quiet yet so thick with tension. Somewhere far behind Spencer, someone mutters, _“Oh shit_ ,” and another girl quickly shushes her.

But then, something in Lucy’s expression softens and the stiffness in her posture seems to melt away. “Oh, Spencer,” she says, sounding as sickeningly sweet as she did on that very first day of class. “What a fantastic idea! Yes, when we get back home, let’s do some therapeutic painting! I’m sure there is so much I can show you about channeling your anger into something constructive. I’m more than happy to teach you a lesson. And I’m proud of you for asking for help in your time of weakness!”

Spencer just sits there. Her mind replays the words, but it still isn’t computing. She must look completely dumbfounded, but all the onlookers aren’t fazed. They’re looking at her now, content with Lucy’s response and waiting to see what’s next. Somehow, Lucy turned the tables on her without lifting a finger or giving an inch. If Spencer wasn’t so horrified with the situation, she’d marvel at the mastery of it.

She goes back to picking apart her dinner roll, but the crowd isn’t looking away. “Sure, whatever,” Spencer says irritably, and the other prisoners finally turn back to their meals. The sounds of casual conversations resume, steadily building on each other, and after a minute, all is returned to normal. Spencer chances to catch a glance at Faith, who’s staring right at her, chewing on her pretzel loudly with a smirk.

“This should be fun,” Faith says in between crunches and raises her eyebrows again.

Spencer closes her eyes and exhales deeply. This is far from over. But then again, it wouldn’t be dinnertime in prison without a giant serving of fear.

****************

The walk back to the cell isn’t nearly long enough, and Spencer starts to think about how she could possibly get a transfer to the very far end of the block. Provided she survives the next twenty-four hours, of course. Or the next _one_ , for that matter.

 _Channeling your anger_ , Lucy said. Spencer remembers the tiny hammer incident in that second Funhouse class and cringes. Anyone who slices people for fun and bashes heads in as “therapy” is certainly capable of killing without tools.

Spencer walks in first, eager to get into a familiar space, though she knows these three walls don’t make her any safer.

 _...in your time of weakness_ …

She turns to see Lucy standing right behind her, arms crossed, with Faith and Santana flanked at her sides.

Buffy slams the door shut and says, “Have fun, ladies,” before walking away. As if everything is fine and normal here and Spencer’s not about to get torn limb from limb.

_I’m more than happy to teach you a lesson..._

Maybe Lucy’s going to use Spencer’s blood as the medium of her next project. Maybe she’ll fashion a paintbrush from Spencer’s tibia and a lock of her hair. Maybe they’ll make a new version of her from the remains, replacing any missing parts of the corpse with Play-Doh ones until the killer spider hauls her rotting flesh away once and for all.

The look on Lucy’s face says any -- or all -- of these are absolutely viable possibilities.

“Look,” Spencer says, taking a step backward, “I got a little carried away --”

“I don’t like being spoken to that way, Spencer,” Lucy says. She sounds more hurt than anything, but her stance is still very much on the offensive.

“I know, I’m sorry, I just --”

“Yes, you do know.” Lucy begins moving toward her one foot at a time. “There are rules.”

Spencer instinctively keeps her distance, stumbling a little on her own shoelace. “At _dinner_?”

“There are always rules. What happens now is your fault,” Lucy says plainly. She looks to Faith and says, “Get it ready.”

_Oh god, oh god, oh god. They’re going to kill me. Oh god, oh god._

Spencer backs up until she’s against the wall, and Lucy follows her, stalking her prey, as Faith and Santana break off to do...something. Spencer’s too damn scared to look.

“Lannister!” she shouts desperately. “Safeword! That’s the rule! LANNISTER!”

“You _are_ safe,” Lucy says and pauses her forward motion, giving Spencer the space she has invoked. “No one’s going to touch you without consent. I already told you that. No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t FEEL safe,” Spencer says.

That seems to sting Lucy. “I thought you trusted me. I’ve never done anything to hurt you. Why are you so afraid?”

All of Spencer’s pent up emotions suddenly burst out as she cries, “You’ve killed _A LOT OF PEOPLE._ Am I just supposed to forget that?”

“I’m protecting you,” Lucy says, as if it’s all the justification she needs.

“She’s for real,” Faith says from ten miles away.

Spencer meets Lucy’s eyes again and says weakly, lips trembling, “I wish I could believe you.”

It’s the truth. She wants nothing more than to believe Lucy Fabray wants to be her champion and biggest ally. But trust is a scarce resource in prison, and Spencer’s not about to let her guard down that easily. Not after embarrassing the Chainsaw Princess in front of the entire prison. She knows how these things work. She’s going to be made an example of.

And now Spencer looks over and sees what the others were up to. Faith took Lucy’s mattress and put it on the floor in the middle of the room, as Santana did the same with hers. Side by side, they made a reasonably sized sleeping area for two people, which…Well. It’s probably not nap time. However, the newly assembled surface would be adequate for dismembering a person without staining the floor.

Lucy asks Spencer another question, but it’s hard to hear the words over the pounding in her ears. Spencer’s thinking about the few happy memories she has, clinging to them and trying to feel good about her life ending here and now. It hasn’t all been bad. There were some good summers of math camp and all the straight-A semesters and the occasional moment of love from her sister and...whatever she felt for Quinn. And, no, it doesn’t feel like enough, and she’s not ready for it to all be over. She doesn’t consent to die. Not here, not now. But what can she do? She’s locked in here with no escape and no way of protecting herself. Spencer doesn’t want to cry, but she feels the sting of tears creeping out anyway.

“Spencer?” Lucy asks.

Pushing away the rising flood waters in her brain, Spencer’s voice cracks as she asks, “Aren’t you going to hurt me?”

Lucy’s head tilts a bit but her voice remains low. “Do you want me to?”

“No,” Spencer says, exasperated. She can’t hide her emotions now. “No, I don’t want you to hurt me. _Please don’t hurt me.”_ It feels ridiculous to have to say it out loud.

“Then I won’t,” Lucy says. “I promise.” Before Spencer can relax even a little, however, Lucy adds, “But you _are_ going to be punished. You’re going to learn to control yourself.”

Spencer takes a deep breath and tries to collect herself here in this moment. She wipes at her eyes and straightens her posture, meeting Lucy’s eyes with another exhale. “Whatever you’re gonna do to me, just make it quick.” The words don’t sound nearly as brave or defiant as she wants them to.

“Oh, no, no. I can’t do that,” Lucy says, taking a step forward and running a finger down Spencer’s cheek. She wipes away a tear Spencer missed and says, “Then you wouldn’t learn.”

“I will, I do, I’m _sorry_ ,” Spencer insists, her words rushed, eyes pressed shut and pushing out more tears. She’s failing at self-control already. Something about Lucy Fabray makes her a quivering mess. “I’m sorry,” she repeats.

“Words are a liar’s tool, Spencer,” Lucy says. “I think you meant every word you said at dinner.”

 _“Then what do you want me to say?”_  Spencer clenches her fists at her sides. She wants to sink into the wall and just melt away into nothing. “I was angry! You’ve been ignoring me for _days_! You wanted me to be scared, well, now I’m scared. You win. Again.” She wipes her face again and sniffs hard, blowing the air out her mouth as her head falls back to rest on the wall again.

“There.” Lucy sounds relieved. “That’s better. No more lies.” Lucy quickly glances back to their cellmates waiting patiently on the makeshift bed. “Now we can have some fun. I hope you’ll agree to play with us,” Lucy says, “so you can show me just how sorry you are.” She lets the proposal breathe for a moment before adding, “I want that very much. And I think you do, too. But, no more lies, like we said. If you really don’t want to, say so now.”

Spencer pulls her lips in between her teeth and bites hard, steadying herself. If Lucy’s true to her word, her life isn’t in any danger, but she can’t know for sure without taking the risk. Spencer hates how badly she wants to trust Lucy when every rational thought in her brain tells her not to. She hates how badly she wants Lucy to put her hands all over her body and make her feel alive. It sure beats Lucy putting her hands on her body and making her not-alive.

 _Why couldn’t I become infatuated with someone normal? Someone who_ hasn’t _killed forty people?_

_Why do you have so much power over me?_

_Why do I like it so much?_

She takes a quick but deep breath and once again puts her life in the hands of a murderer. “Okay. I’ll play.” Just for safe measure, she adds, “Please don’t kill me.”

Lucy breaks out into a smile. “Wonderful!” She turns and smiles at Faith and Santana, who reply with a cheeky thumbs-up and a wink, respectively. Looking back at Spencer, she crosses her arms and looks her up and down. “As much as I like when you beg me to make you scream,” Lucy says with a gentle smile, “I think you’re done talking for now. Unless you need to use your safeword as intended. Look at me and nod if you agree.”

With a long exhale, Spencer opens her eyes and meets Lucy’s, then slowly but clearly nods her head.

And just like that, the game is on.

Lucy cocks her head back a little, examining the moment with a serious expression. “Take off your clothes,” she says quietly, non-threatening.

Spencer’s hands shake as she pulls the zipper down, exposing the vulnerabilities beneath her armor. The black jumpsuit crumples to a pile on the floor, leaving Spencer cold and shaking in only her bra. Lucy closes the distance between them and drags her thumb along Spencer’s jawline so hesitantly that Spencer almost doesn’t feel the brush of lips against hers before Lucy pulls away.

She tries to stay in the moment; she focuses hard on the tingling in her lips, but then there’s a soft sound that pulls her out of her daze. When Spencer opens her eyes, she sees a very naked Lucy standing before her, and her heart stops. Or, her brain stops. Maybe everything stops.

“May I kiss you?” Lucy asks. Spencer’s heard the question before, but it’s quite different now, standing skin to skin, equally powerless, each afraid of the other for reasons that seem to be rapidly fading away.

Spencer’s mouth falls open slightly, maybe to let in more air for her poor, failing brain. Lucy Fabray doesn’t ever truly look scared, per se, but she is fearful of rejection in these moments. Spencer can see it in her eyes. There’s a humanity shining through that Spencer finally feels she can trust. Fixating on Lucy’s lips, Spencer nods and holds her breath.

Before she can even close her eyes, Lucy is kissing her. Any shades of fear quickly melt away in the heat as both girls feel their confidence rising. The taste of Lucy Fabray on her tongue makes Spencer weak in the knees, so she reaches back to brace herself against the wall. They kiss for minutes on end, deeply, intensely, until Spencer loses all touch with reality. It’s only when Lucy breaks away that she remembers who she is or why she’s standing naked in a prison cell being really gay. Her body is suddenly cold without Lucy’s against it, but she doesn’t know if she should--

Suddenly, the intercom blares the sound of keyboards as Madonna’s “Give It 2 Me” starts.

Santana throws her head back with a laugh and claps three times. _“Perfect!”_   Rising from her seat, she pulls Faith in close, unzipping each other’s jumpsuits as they begin making out.

Lucy walks over toward them and steps onto the mattresses, turning to hold out her hand to Spencer.

It’s all just so much -- the heightened emotions and the frustration and the fear and the want. Just minutes ago, she thought everything was ending, and now it looks like some kind of new beginning. Spencer would be lying if she said she didn’t want it. Still, she wonders if it’s better to stay there against the wall, to not be drawn into whatever tangled mess the three girls have together. Lucy wants to punish her bad behavior; Spencer hasn’t forgotten.

She could say no to Lucy, right?

Deep in the back of Spencer’s mind, the truth nags at her – Yes, she could if she wanted to. But she _doesn’t_ want to. Not even a little bit.

And then Faith’s hand slips between Santana’s legs, and Lucy raises one eyebrow, and Spencer’s three steps from the wall before she even realizes she’s moving.

Her mouth meets Lucy’s again in a collision of wills, hands grasping for skin and strongholds as they pull each other closer, harder. She hasn’t been allowed to use her hands before, and suddenly she wants them everywhere at once. Spencer reaches down to Lucy’s perfect ass, sliding her palm along the smooth skin. She’s missed the warmth of contact, the rush that impact brings, and she wants to take all of Lucy in with her fingertips, one inch at a time. But as soon as she reaches for new ground, Lucy pulls away entirely and walks to the foot of the bed.

“Lie down,” she says.

She crawls onto the middle of the left mattress -- Lucy’s -- as its owner stands at the end, staring down at her. Then, Lucy circles around to the far end, standing between Spencer and the cell bars, and gestures for Spencer to spin around to face her.

“Take that off,” Lucy motions to Spencer’s bra. A swift movement later, and Lucy’s staring down at Spencer with a newly appreciative look. “It’s time you learned your lesson, Spencer.”

“W--” She starts to protest but quickly stops herself. There are rules in play. Taking a deep breath to steady the pounding in her very bare chest, Spencer tries to remember that whole _“Trust the murderer”_ thing. Even if Lucy does kill her, this should be a hell of a way to die.

“Faith,” Lucy says, not breaking eye contact with Spencer, “hold her down.”

At the sound of those words, Spencer’s heart races faster. She’s suddenly very aware of her hands, as they’re probably about to be pinned behind her head. She fights the urge to squirm in protest for what’s coming.

Faith breaks away from Santana and says, “My pleasure.” She steps over Spencer’s stomach, straddling it and standing proudly like king of the damn mountain.

Spencer has...quite the view of her, and it’s hard not to look, well, right _there_. She tries to make eye contact with Faith, but there are nipples and that predatory grin, and Spencer tries to half-turn to look away but doesn’t want to seem insulting.

Faith squats down, balancing on her toes with her knees wide open, awkwardly close to Spencer’s face. Now, Spencer can smell her, and it’s new and intoxicating, and her body is reacting in ways she doesn’t want -- not with _her_. Not like this.

“Looks like I get the fun job,” Faith says, and she brushes the hair off Spencer’s collarbone and shoulders, then drags a fingertip across her throat.

If it’s meant to be intimidating, well, it’s working.

Spencer swallows hard and braces for the hands around her throat she knows are coming. She remembers how Lucy plays. Surely, she’s trained Faith in her reindeer games.

“Hands over your head,” Faith says.

_Oh god._

Spencer slowly drags her arms out from where they’ve been pinned by Faith’s feet. They’re free now, with full range of motion. Spencer lifts them over her head, unsure if she’s supposed to be holding on to something like before or just not touching anything. The stakes are too high to get things wrong. Spencer never studied for this test, but she doesn’t want to fail.

Faith must see the look of fear in her wide eyes, because she laughs once and offers, “You’re gonna need ‘em,” with a wink.

Lucy walks over and stands behind Spencer’s head, facing Faith, and then lowers herself until she’s squatting next to Spencer’s ear. (Spencer almost has an aneurysm watching her move down.)

“We’re going to help you get over her,” Lucy says, and gently strokes Spencer’s hair. It’s sweet and only slightly terrifying having not one but two scary, naked women hovering over her like this, appearing to care. And then, as soon as Spencer’s starting to feel comfortable in the moment, it’s gone, because Lucy stands up and walks out of view. “But if you want us to put you first, you have to show that you can put _us_ first, too.” She circles around so Spencer can see her again. “Can you do that, Spencer? Can you make Faith believe you?”

Faith leans down slightly and says with a smirk, “I’m ready to listen if your mouth’s got something to say.”

“Truth time,” Lucy says. “Look at me and nod if you’re ready to show us just how much you want to belong here.”

Spencer’s heart is crashing into her ribcage over and over, threatening to burst out. She feels the blood rushing to her head, and everything in her body is aching with how much she wants this. These goddamn hormones are going to be the death of her. Literally.

“If you want out,” Lucy adds, “put a hand flat on her stomach. That’s your safe sign. Otherwise, I’ll expect you won’t stop until I say you can. Do you understand?”

Looking at Lucy once more, Spencer lifts her head off the floor and nods, then turns her eyes back to Faith.

Spencer hears Lucy’s final words of encouragement over the pounding in her ears. _“Don’t disappoint us.”_

“Ride or die,” Faith says with a wicked grin. Then, she shifts herself forward and tilts her knees against the ground, positioning herself right on Spencer’s mouth.

Everything goes dark, and it’s sudden and intrusive and heavy and suffocating and salty and claustrophobic. Spencer immediately makes a sound of protest, bending her knees in, and her elbows press against Faith’s thighs as she tries to push herself free. With a slight adjustment, her nose is unsmooshed and she can breathe more easily. Spencer takes in a fast rush of air, and the scent is intoxicating.

Faith weaves her fingers into Spencer’s hair, tenderly, not to pull but just to hold her still, and Spencer relents at the touch. Then, to her surprise, something instinctive kicks in as the soft, wet skin moves against her mouth, and Spencer freezes, letting her mind catch up to her tense, scared body. She’s certainly never been in this position before, but it’s not like she hasn’t thought about it, hasn’t wanted it. Not with Faith per se, but still. She’s needed this.

Closing her eyes, Spencer slowly brings her mouth closed, brushing her lips tentatively against the slick skin like a nervous first kiss. She repeats the motion, bigger and more precise, then finds new ground and does it a third time. With gaining confidence, she slips her tongue out and glides it along the curved edge, getting a first true taste of what she’s been missing all this time.

It’s fucking amazing.

“Yeah, you like that?” Faith asks, and Spencer hums in approval as she pushes in toward the source of the wetness.

Spencer moves faster, wider, deeper as she goes, exploring each twist and turn with increasing energy. It’s getting harder to breathe as her nose is blocked again, and she fights to do what she can before coming up for air.

But then, Spencer remembers she’s allowed to use her hands. And that changes everything.

Now, with added control, precision, and leverage, she makes room to breathe and pushes harder against Faith, grinding her tongue on Faith’s clit like her life depends on it -- because, hell, it honestly might. In the fleeting moments when she’s not lost in her actions, when she can think objectively about what she’s doing right here, right now, her brain malfunctions. How did she go from Rosewood’s darling, girlfriend of the outsider bad boy and dutiful daughter, to eating out a convicted murderer in a prison cell in outer space?

And how did she get so damn good at this so quickly? The noises Faith’s making are quite encouraging and push Spencer to work even harder. But then, she always was the overachiever.

Beyond the sounds of her eager tongue and Faith’s pleasure, somewhere in the moments Faith’s thighs aren’t pressed right against her ears, Spencer hears Lucy’s muffled voice close by.

_“Good girl. Don’t stop. Make her believe you.”_

The words are cold and matter-of-fact, and Spencer’s drive for approval only makes her work harder. Spencer’s eager to prove herself. Her muscles are getting fatigued, but she’s determined to finish what she started. She can do this. She can get someone off on her first time trying.

She’s a Hastings, goddamnit.

But then her thighs are being pushed open and angled back, and Spencer’s suddenly on display for anyone to see. For all she knows, there’s a line of guards a few feet away taking in the view and laughing at her. (At the moment, Spencer’s just grateful this prison only has cells on one side of the block.) But, no, she can’t let herself think about any of that. It doesn’t change anything. All she can see is Faith, so she closes her eyes again and tries to regain her focus on her task.

_It’s all just a test. I’m good at tests._

But then, without warning, a tongue drags slowly through Spencer’s wetness, bottom to pulsating top. Spencer groans loudly against Faith’s skin, crying out in shock at the sensation. It shoots up her spine as her back arches in response, and everything else stops.

 _“Keep going,”_  Lucy’s voice says, still close. It seems to be coming from behind Spencer, which must mean Santana is the one between her legs.

Faith’s sitting on her face, Santana’s going down on her, and Lucy Fabray is watching.

But Spencer’s fine. Really.

Only, she’s not at all, because Santana’s tongue is circling her clit, and Spencer’s forgotten how to breathe again.

A sudden pull on her hair kickstarts her lungs with a gasp, and Lucy’s right by her ear now, whispering forcefully, _“I said... Keep. Going. You don’t get to stop until I say so.”_

Electricity fires in Spencer’s brain, but she can’t make sense of any of it. She’s lost all control of her body, now moving on its own in response to whatever Santana’s doing. Spencer whimpers against Faith’s skin, both of them wet and messy and warm, and Lucy tightens the hold in Spencer’s hair, pushing her deeper into Faith. Lucy’s hand shifts to the back of Spencer’s head and supports it, keeping her close in. Nice as it is to have some relief for her neck, it also restricts her range of motion, eliminating the option of retreat, save for the safety signal.

No, Spencer isn’t stopping. The test just got a hell of a lot harder with this goddamn distraction between her legs, too. She feels like she’s drowning, but she’s still alive.

Adapting to her competition, Spencer tries to mirror what Santana’s doing, because it sure is fucking effective. Her body is humming with energy. But it’s difficult enough staying focused on the clit in front of her, much less ignoring her own as it pulses hard against Santana’s warm, skilled tongue.

“Faster,” Faith says, and she sounds displeased, which can’t bode well for Spencer’s health. As if right on cue, she feels a sharp pain on her inner thigh.

_OWW! Did that bitch just BITE me?_

There’s Sexy Love Bite and then there’s Painful Boundary-Crossing Bite, and this was definitely the latter. Spencer promises herself she’ll give the safe sign if it happens again. For now, Santana is making it up to her in spades, sucking hard on her aching clit. Spencer wonders if the bite is her so-called punishment, or if worse is still coming. Somehow, she digs deep and finds the strength to move her aching tongue faster. The sooner she gets Faith to climax, the better she can focus on her own. Haphazardly, she makes uneven circles around Faith’s clit, trying desperately to establish a steady rhythm but lacking the strength to maintain it. Even with her hands making room, each breath is a struggle.

 _“Don’t let her come,”_   Lucy says loudly.

Spencer prays she’s the one being spoken to, because she’s quickly losing this battle and has no idea if Faith’s anywhere close. It’s got to have been at least ten minutes now, but Spencer realizes she has no idea how long it takes for a girl to come this way. No one’s ever been down on her long enough to find out.

 _“Not until she proves she’s learned her lesson,”_  Lucy adds, and now Spencer knows she’s fucked.

Well, so to speak.

Her mouth is sore, and she considers reaching for Faith’s stomach if only for reprieve. But no, Spencer’s still too scared to know what they’ll do if she surrenders. She wants to get through this, and somehow, some way, she will. Spencer wants to come, she _needs_ to come so badly, and this is her moment to prove herself. Not that she’s learned whatever Lucy’s fucked up lesson is, but that she can hold her own in here. Prove that she’s the badass she thinks she is.

The motherfucking, clit-licking, lesbian badass.

Her neck is killing her, her ears are ringing, there’s a stray hair on her tongue, and she’s fairly certain she’s about to suffocate, but Spencer keeps working and tunes out the chorus of “Papa Don’t Preach.” She already knows she’s in trouble deep, thank you very much.

Digging further within herself, she finds a burst of strength and energy. She moves one hand to slide a long finger inside Faith. Taking another breath, Spencer focuses on grinding her tongue along Faith’s clit, mirroring the rhythm with her finger, pulling and digging and pressing with everything she has.

 _“Yeah...yeah…_ ” Faith pants.

Spencer’s mind slips back and forth between Faith’s legs and her own, but she keeps her pace steady. She’s gaining traction now, and she’s not about to lose it. Each passing minute brings relief that much closer. Her jaw aches, her teeth have scraped the underside of her tongue raw, and she’s going to feel the cramp in her neck for days, but goddamnit, she’s making this happen.

Faith must be getting close, because she’s moaning loudly in between the phrases Lucy’s saying. _“Give it to her, Faith. I want you to come for me with her fingers inside you. I want you to come hard, Faith. Do it. DO IT. NOW!”_

There’s a high-pitched ringing as Faith’s thighs clamp tightly on Spencer’s ears. The pressure increases, and the body above her shudders with a loud cry. Faith grabs fistfuls of Spencer’s hair and pushes hard, holding her tongue flush against her as the orgasm courses through. Spencer doesn’t know if she’s supposed to stop, so she keeps flicking and circling, then sucks hard when she feels Faith’s body stutter to a halt. It’s only then that she notices the steady rhythm continuing between her own legs, where Santana’s not yet been given reprieve.

“Good,” Lucy says simply, brushing Spencer’s hair out of her face. “Faith is a model of self-control. You can learn a lot from her.”

Faith, panting heavy breaths now, crawls off of Spencer much more awkwardly than she got on. She sits spread-eagle on the other mattress beside them, leaning back against the empty bed frame. “Not bad, rookie. You’ve got a bright future as a bicycle.”

Spencer doesn’t know if she’s allowed to wipe her face, but she does so anyway with her forearm. Closing her eyes, she tries to block out the unending awkwardness of the situation and focus just on what Santana’s tongue is doing. Only, Spencer’s imagining it’s Quinn.

“Stop,” Lucy says, and Santana obeys.

Spencer’s eyes pop right back open as she sits up, turning to face Lucy. “HEY. No! Come on!” Spencer looks to Santana for support, but she only shrugs and wipes her chin with the back of her hand. “Seriously,” she says to Lucy, “Enough with the power trip! Just let me have a goddamn orgasm!”

Any warmth in Lucy’s face drains instantly, and Spencer wonders why she can’t just keep her fucking mouth shut. As much as Lucy drives her crazy, it’s best not to test the limits of confessed killers. Especially ones who have explicitly expressed that she will be punished.

Locking eyes with Spencer, Lucy steps forward until she’s right in front of her, with Spencer’s face right _there._ (Spencer doesn’t know where the hell she’s supposed to look, but she’s suddenly very aware of the stray hair still on her tongue.) Lucy grabs Spencer’s chin and pulls it upward sharply, reestablishing eye contact. It’s not painful, but it’s certainly uncomfortable, and Spencer suppresses the urge to jerk herself free. “It seems your mouth isn’t as tired as I thought. Perhaps you need another lesson?”

Much as she enjoyed going down on Faith, everything in her mouth hurts from the effort, and another round would only make it worse. The very thought is exhausting. She tries not to clench her tender jaw too tightly as she says, “No.”

Lucy squeezes Spencer’s chin tighter. “Then control yourself, or I’ll change my mind.” She releases her hold but doesn’t look away yet. “Let me be very clear: _We_ come first tonight. Yours is optional.” With a sickeningly sweet smile, Lucy asks, “Do you wish to continue?”

Spencer’s eyes fall closed for a second as she exhales heavily, frustrated. Of course she wants to continue. She just doesn’t like admitting how fucking badly she wants it.

“Yes,” she says clearly.

Looking up at the other girls, Lucy points a finger upward and makes a circular motion, some kind of signal that they both seem to understand. Suddenly, Faith grabs Spencer’s shoulders and pulls her back and away from Lucy. Santana grabs Spencer’s feet, but she’s kicking furiously and shouting, “Hey! What are you doing!” as they attempt to reposition her.

“Chill out, jesus,” Santana says when Spencer’s foot connects soundly with her thigh.

But Spencer’s not giving in easily. So, instead, Santana shuffles over to the other mattress and sits at the foot of it, lying down so her face is in the center. (Faith scoots a bit out of the way to make room.) She looks at Spencer with a smirk, then holds her hands up as she says, “I’m not getting any younger.”

Spencer looks up at Lucy, then Faith, then back to Lucy, waiting for instructions. How the hell is she supposed to just know what to do? It’s not like she regularly frequents lesbian prison orgies. Or any orgies, for that matter. She didn’t see the Orgy Etiquette Book in the library. Though, now that she considers it, she wouldn’t be terribly surprised if this library had one.

“Sit,” Lucy says to Spencer, gesturing with her head.

She looks at Santana, who’s licking her lips, because it’s Spencer’s turn to be on top. Seems easy enough, though she isn’t sure how this plays into the _“You come last”_  bullshit unless Santana’s about to bite her into oblivion. Her legs are shaking as she stands and hobbles over to Santana, and it feels very, very awkward lowering herself over someone’s face. She isn’t sure where to put her feet or her knees, but the moment Santana’s tongue reconnects with her skin, she falls into some straddling position that works. Leaning forward against the mattress, Spencer angles her body to what feels best, making sure to support her own weight and not suffocate her very eager partner below. But Santana seems to be doing just fine down there. Based on the skill she’s exhibiting, it’s clear this position isn’t anything new.

Spencer’s hair falls around her face as she leans forward and focuses on the swirls of Santana’s tongue. Her palms are sweaty against the thin, stained mattress; fingers curling to hold on for dear life as the pace increases. It’s easy enough to think of Quinn when she closes her eyes and blocks out the room. Moving in steady time with the new Madonna song, she tries to get within reach of her orgasm before Lucy has a chance to pull her back again.

As if reading her mind, Lucy moves to stand right in front of Spencer again. But then she sits down, legs spread, positioning herself behind Santana’s head – and right under Spencer’s face.

_No...I can’t...not like this?_

And then Faith’s hands pull Spencer’s shoulders back until she’s sitting straight upright. Her weight’s thrown off, and she stumbles as she regains her balance, trying not to crush Santana’s shoulders with her legs. Spencer pushes her hair out of her face, and now she can fully see the naked, gorgeous Lucy Fabray spread out in front of her.

Lucy looks her right in the eye as she scoots herself forward, inching closer until Spencer’s knees are pushing her thighs wider and wider. “I want you to fuck me, Spencer.”

_Oh, sure. It sounds so simple._

Leaning forward again on her weak hand for support, Spencer reaches out and traces a fingertip along the soft curves of Lucy Fabray. She’s never touched another girl like this before. She’s wanted to do this for weeks, much longer than she’ll admit to herself -- maybe from the first moment they met. It’s confusing, the jumble of emotions for Quinn and the echo of that face looking up at her now. Spencer doesn’t want Quinn to speak to her like this, so why does it make her wet when Lucy does? More importantly, why is Spencer trying to sort out her feelings when her finger’s sliding ever so easily inside her?

Lucy hums in approval and says, “More,” leaning forward into Spencer’s touch.

With the boost in confidence, Spencer slides a second finger into place and increases her speed. It makes her feel powerful, this sensation of being inside someone. She finds a rhythm that she can maintain without tiring too quickly, and then realizes she’s moving in time with the song playing overhead. _(WHY does it have to be “Like a Virgin”? WHY?)_ Santana’s tongue beneath her isn’t slowing down, either. Spencer remembers what Quinn did to her and positions her thumb accordingly to press against Lucy’s clit as she moves. Based on the response, as Lucy arches her back with a smile and a moan, Spencer knows she’s getting somewhere.

_Thank you, Quinn._

“Mind if I join you ladies?” Faith asks.

Spencer had almost forgotten Faith’s right behind her. She feels fingernails trace down her back, sending a chill straight to her toes.

“That depends,” Lucy says. It sounds like she’s struggling to string words together with her usual commanding presence. It gives Spencer more pleasure than it probably should. “Has Spencer learned her lesson? Can you control yourself?”

With an angry glare, Spencer slams her hand in and out of Lucy as hard as she can, fighting through the burn in her forearms. She’s not going to be goaded like this, not anymore. Not by Lucy fucking Fabray, Play-Doh Power Princess. Spencer thinks of Quinn, of how hard she’s fighting to stay alive and get back to her somehow.

Spencer keeps moving. “Yes…I...CAN.”

Lucy finds Spencer’s eyes through the curtain of hair covering her face. “Don’t stop.” It’s not a plea, it’s an order, almost angry. “Harder, Spencer. Show me how very sorry you are. Make me believe it.”

Somewhere along the way, both the music and Santana stopped, but Spencer keeps going. The trails of sweat tickling down her face and neck, the ache of friction on her knees, the cramp in her back, the sting in her forearm -- nothing matters. Not until she’s made Lucy scream.

And goddamnit, she’s going to.

“Do it!” Lucy says, and Spencer takes the cue to increase her pace. It’s finally her moment to shine. She’s about to make Lucy come.

Only, Spencer’s suddenly bombarded by sensations as Santana pushes her tongue hard against her clit again, bringing back into sharp focus just how much Spencer’s missed that pressure. A moment later, Faith’s kneeling beside her with a hand tight around her throat, choking her firmly, mouth hovering next to Spencer’s ear. She’s being ambushed from all sides.

“She said _‘harder,’_ ” Faith taunts, and flexes her fingers again as a show of strength. “Did you need me to let go?” It’s a toying question, as Faith clearly knows what the answer will be.

Spencer shakes her head no, at least as much as she can with her neck in Faith’s grip.

Faith presses her lips against Spencer’s ear and whispers, “Then fuck her, you little _bitch_.”

_Oh god._

Spencer can still breathe, but it’s much harder now. Her entire body is screaming for oxygen, dehydrated and numb and spent. It’s difficult to stay conscious -- much less, _moving_ \-- when Santana’s moaning obscenities between her legs and Faith’s tracing her tongue along Spencer’s ear like that.

Spencer gasps and stumbles as her braced arm gives out.

 _“Control,”_   Lucy reminds her.

She curses silently and switches arms as quickly as she can, not wanting to lose her momentum. Two fingers from her left hand find their way inside Lucy easily, and Spencer adjusts her angle to get moving again. This is her weak arm; she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to finish the task. But she has to try.

Faith seems displeased by the interruption. She jerks Spencer by the throat a few inches closer. “Did you not hear me? _Fuck. Her._ ”

Spencer moans loudly, leaning lower as she tries to increase her pace. Now that the music is gone, the sounds around her are deafening – the white noise of the prisoners hollering down the hall, the hollow gasps of her own breathing, the rhythm of Santana’s tongue, the slapping of her hand against Lucy, and Faith’s vicious words in her ear. It’s a goddamn symphony, and Spencer’s the conductor.

_I had no idea that job was so exhaust---_

“This really isn’t your best angle,” Buffy’s voice cuts in, out of nowhere.

Spencer’s eyes open wide, letting in the harsh light of reality, and she tries to jerk away as if she had somewhere to go or hide. As if she wasn’t currently sitting on someone’s face, two fingers deep into another, and ass widely on display for any passersby.

Faith doesn’t seem bothered in the least. “Why don’t you come join us, B? I’ve been wondering just how far I can fit my fist up your tight little ass.”

“Charming as ever,” Buffy says, leaning against the bars to make eye contact with Faith.

Spencer keeps waiting for the guard to leave but she just… _doesn’t_. Instead, she has a front-row seat to Spencer’s Big Day, and Spencer wants nothing more than to curl up and die. She doesn’t know why this _keeps happening_ to her. Why can’t she just have mindblowing sex without being interrupted? Is that really too fucking much to ask? It’s almost like prison isn’t some perfect fantasy or something.

She closes her eyes again and tries to hold on to her rapidly fading arousal. After everything she’s endured so far, she doesn’t want to have to start all over. _Again_. Shifting her weight once more, Spencer switches back to her right hand and prays there’s enough gas in the tank to reach their destination.

“Are you a quitter, Spencer?” Lucy asks dangerously. “I don’t like girls who are quitters.”

She answers with her fingers, resuming a faster pace than before, though she’s now much more self-conscious of how weird the whole thing is. Spencer Hastings is the centerpiece of an angerbang prison orgy. In the middle of a steel, space uterus.

_Is this what the insignia meant by being “reborn”?_

_“Harder,”_  Faith insists, and Spencer feels the sting of a brutal _smack!_ against her ass.

She cries out loudly, matching the volume of it, and Lucy grins below her. Spencer’s muscles are on the verge of giving out. This can’t go on forever. And if Santana keeps sucking on her clit like that, she’s not long for this world, anyway.

“Let me help you,” Faith says slyly. Keeping her left hand on Spencer’s throat, she then drags the other down Spencer’s spine, across her ass, and underneath.

Spencer tries to block out the distraction and focus on giving Lucy what she wants. But then she feels Faith’s finger between her legs, right behind Santana’s hungry mouth. It starts at her wetness, pressing firmly, and traces back and upward, then presses against the tight hole. Instinctively, Spencer presses back, letting Faith inside. Suddenly, a burst of stimulation courses through her, one she’s never felt before.

 _“Fuck!”_  Spencer cries out, burying her face against her braced arm. It’s all too much -- the onslaught of sensations, everything that’s happening _everywhere_ all at once. She can’t tell if it’s sweat running down her face now or tears. She can’t tell if her arm’s still moving or if she’s still upright or if she’s even still breathing. But she knows that Faith’s got a finger deep inside her and isn’t leaving, isn’t even retracting. She’s filling Spencer up and keeping her at her limit until she breaks.

“You like that, don’t you?” Faith asks, pressing against her inner walls in steady motions. “You like how we fuck you?”

 _“Yes.”_  Spencer’s not sure how much more she can take, but she’s never felt anything like this. She didn’t know she _could_ feel anything like this. Her muscles are tightening, it’s building, and she knows she’s close, whether she’s allowed to be or not. She presses her eyes closed and tries to hold it together somehow.

 _“Say you’re sorry,”_  Lucy says somewhere in the distance.

Spencer gasps, holding her eyes firmly against her trembling arm. The salt of her sweat stings in her eyes, mixing with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she pants.

“Good,” Faith says. “ ‘Cause we never stop, Spencer,” says Faith. She drives her finger in as far as she can, squeezing her hand for pressure, then pulls Spencer closer by her throat with the same strength. Lips pressed to her ear, Faith says, _“We’re gonna fuck you til you die.”_

And Spencer’s world comes completely undone.

She falls over the edge of the mattress, involuntarily shuddering as the orgasm moves through her. A scream echoes in the room that might be hers; she doesn’t know. Spencer’s drowning in the flood of chemicals exploding in her brain.

When she’s finally able to open her eyes, she discovers she’s on her side, curled up awkwardly with one leg tucked in and two fingers still wet from Lucy. Whom Spencer’s pretty sure she never got off.

She blinks against the light coming in from the corridor and wonders how long her arms have felt this tingly. The three girls are sitting beside her in various states of emotion ranging from amusement to boredom.

Spencer’s eyes widen as she says weakly, “Am I in trouble?”

Lucy brushes the hair off Spencer’s cheek and moves closer in, taking her head into her lap. “No,” she says softly. “You’re my star student.”

_Dr. Umbridge will be so proud._

“Apology accepted,” Lucy says. Her smile is sincere. “I’m proud of you.”

Spencer relaxes into the touch of Lucy’s fingertips tracing letters on her back, and her eyes droop closed again. The last thing she sees is Santana leaning back against Faith, snuggling like kids in love. It’s sweet, really. Spencer can’t help but think that if they really do take care of each other like this, maybe being stuck here -- being absorbed into this insane dynamic --  won’t be so bad after all.

“Told you,” Faith says with a smirk. “Four of hearts beats nine of clubs.”

Santana holds up a hand. “She needs work. But it’s a start.”

A few minutes later, Spencer’s halfway asleep when she hears Santana break the silence. “Okay, but can we discuss, _‘We’ll_ _fuck you to death’_  ?”

Faith laughs and says, “Like you didn’t know she’d be into that.”


	34. It Rubs the Lotion on the Skin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

The next morning, things are decidedly different in cell 1. Spencer’s included in group conversation as well as the midday sexual hijinks, as if she’d been one of the gang all along. It’s an adjustment on her part, for sure, as she’s now expected to participate equally at their every whim, but it’s helping the days pass, so Spencer doesn’t complain. She’s learning the ins and outs of their particular kinks and dynamics, like how Faith has a different arrangement with Lucy for every day of the week, each with its own rules, and that Santana is orally fixated on a level that’s a little creepy. Spencer’s trying to find just where she fits in, only for the sake of her research, of course.

Not because she actually _wants_ to belong.

_...Right?_

She does hate to admit that, for as much as she tells herself what a strong and independent woman she is, she’s still more comfortable in a group. Spencer understands teams and archetypes and knows how to play well with others. That’s her safe zone. This is just another group, and Lucy is her new Alison, her new…

No.

Lucy is Lucy. She will never be Spencer’s new Quinn.

Still, Spencer can’t deny that her conflicted feelings of playing the emotional double agent are fading. That, or she’s simply becoming more comfortable in the role. She wonders at times, though, just how much it’s still a role and how much she truly belongs to this new family of four. Would they defend her, if a situation presented itself?

And possibly the bigger question -- Would she defend them?

As she lies awake one Thursday evening, listening to the gentle hum of Santana’s snoring below, Spencer thinks about the trust they’ve built together. It’s real, right? These girls are capable of a lot, but they’ve become humanized in the past week, no longer just caricatures of their most gruesome quality. Spencer’s finding it harder and harder to believe that any one of them, even Lucy, could be responsible for a spider killing spree in here. But the fact that she’s losing her objectivity about convicted murderers scares her just as much as the spider does.

If she becomes blind to the truth, will it kill her?

That chilling thought gives her the perspective she needs to step back and see the situation for what it is. After a few very long months up here, Spencer’s started to forget everything she left behind. She’s forgetting where she comes from, who she really is. Her other life is melting away into a blur of memories, like some distant dream. The question becomes, how hard will she fight to hold on to it?

Spencer rolls over on the hard mattress and shuffles through her mental iPod, landing on one of her favorite albums, the one she and Emily bought at the concert last September. Starting at the beginning, she quietly plays through it in her mind, whispering along to the lyrics. It’s a breath of fresh air to be singing along to something not Madonna, even if she only remembers the barebones melody line. At least she’s trying. If she doesn’t let go of her past, it’ll never be wholly gone, right? There has to still be a chance she can get out of here someday, somehow.

Her mind stumbles over some words in the second chorus, rhymes she just can’t connect, and Spencer makes up something new and moves forward. Maybe her iPod’s battery is running low. Or maybe it doesn’t really matter anyway.

****************

_“As you can see, this is a top-notch facility. None of that riff raff you find in the outer sectors.”_

Sue’s voice carries down the corridor as she walks deftly in her cross-trainers. The clicking of a second pair of shoes echoes behind her, but Spencer can’t yet see to whom they belong. This cell is at the very far end of the block, down by the Mess Hall, and she’s usually happy to have this much distance between herself and the warden. Now, the curiosity is driving her crazy. She’d think Mistress Berry is back, but their dialogue sounds like an introduction.

When they’re finally within sight, Spencer sees a short, proper-looking woman dressed very professionally and looking from cell to cell as if seeking someone specific. Double checking the number above, she glances into #1, paying Spencer no more mind than the toilet, and then turns to Sue, clearly unhappy.

“Where’s Lopez?”

Sue blinks. “Pardon?”

“Santana. Lopez.”

Sue looks sincerely confused as she replies, “Never heard of her.”

Spencer doesn’t have any idea what’s going on, but she’s learning to keep her mouth shut. Sylvester must have a plan, some reason for lying, and Spencer’s fine with playing along. Santana’s in the shower at the moment with the others and won’t be back for at least another twenty minutes. (Spencer learned just what goes on in the shower block at 2:30 the first time she accompanied them, and, _no, thank you_.)

This woman looks like government, or maybe law enforcement. Spencer’s desperately curious to know what’s going on, but if Santana’s _that_ dangerous – to warrant being moved from here to somewhere worse -- the last thing Spencer wants to do is cross her. God only knows what kind of connections she might have. Her questions can wait.

“I know she’s here, Warden,” the woman says testily, “so cut the crap and bring her out of wherever she’s hiding.”

“There isn’t a single prisoner on the roster named Lupe, my hand to God,” Sue says.

But then the woman turns and sees Spencer listening from the middle of the cell. Her attention shifts immediately, and she approaches the bars with fire in her eyes. “Miss, I’m Clarice Starling with the United States FBI.”

_Holy crap, FBI?!_

The agent continues, “I’m attempting to locate a prisoner who escaped our custody and is believed to have been transported to space. What can you tell me about Santana Lopez?”

“She knows nothing,” Sue interjects dismissively, walking over to pry the agent from the bars.

“I can tell from the look in her eyes she knows _something_!” Agent Starling reaches into her pocket and withdraws a picture of Santana, then shouts, “LOOK AT THIS PHOTOGRAPH!” She holds it against the bars, blazing in anger, and then instantly starts berating herself. “Shit! God _damn_ it!” She throws the picture to the ground stomps angrily, walking away from the cell in a huff.

Spencer’s completely lost (and quite afraid), but happens to glance down and see a post-it note attached to the back of the picture:

**TALK ABOUT:**

  * Santana Lopez



**DO NOT TALK ABOUT:**

  * Nickelback
  * Paramore
  * Tatiana Maslany



Collecting herself, the agent picks the photo back up and holds it steady in front of Spencer’s face. “Do you recognize this woman?”

It’s Santana, clear as day. Not a very recent picture; prison’s worn her out a bit. But you can’t forget that face. Still, Spencer’s not any closer to ratting out her cellmate. This agent has no leverage over her.

And it’s not like lying to cops is new for her. She’s from Rosewood.

Whatever Santana’s done, it can’t be any worse than what the rest of them are in for. But then the wheels in Spencer’s big brain start turning again, considering all possible options. Maybe Santana’s being released? Maybe she’s part of some bigger conspiracy or something on the outside. It’s been months since Spencer heard any news from Earth. She has no idea what’s going on. They could be in World War III for all she knows. She doesn’t recognize the woman’s name on the post-it; it’s probably another criminal the agent’s chasing after. Maybe someone in prison Spencer hasn’t met yet.

_But, still, this agent is clearly out of her mind. Who needs a reminder to not talk about Nickelback?_

“Wait, let me see that,” Sue says, reaching for the tattered picture. She takes a good look and chuckles to herself. “Lunchbag Rodriguez! Why didn’t you say so?”

_Lunchbag?!_

The agent pauses. “You can’t honestly think that’s her name.”

Sue steps in closer and speaks quietly but firmly. “I’ll have you know my great-great-great-great-great grandmother was named Rodriguez, so you better back off.” There’s a very awkward silence as Sue stares down the agent before saying, “She’s in the showers.”

“Send your people,” the agent says. “I’ll wait here.”

Sue motions to Boomer, who slinks off disinterestedly in the direction of the bathrooms.

“What’d she do, anyway?” Spencer asks.

Agent Starling pauses with raised eyebrows. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her. She was the teenage bad girl of the Midwest for several years.” When Spencer doesn’t respond, she continues. “Santana Lopez has a long history of eating young women.”

_You don’t say._

Spencer crosses her arms. “So, you, what -- got astronaut training to fly all over the galaxy hunting lesbian offenders?”

Agent Starling seems to relax a bit, like they can just chit-chat while she waits for her delivery. “Something like that. I wanted to be in space when I was a little girl, and I wanted to make a difference. I’ve always wanted to help people. With a job like this, though...well. Some days are hard. You can’t let yourself forget why you got into this line of work in the first place.” She smiles to herself. “It’s just a spark, but it’s enough to keep me going.” Then her brow furrows again and she slaps her leg, “DAMNIT!”

When the agent calms down, Spencer leans in and whispers, “Hey. If I told you there was a killer spider who was kidnapping and murdering prisoners every month during our periods...you wouldn’t...do anything to help us, would you?”

Clarice stares at her.

Spencer purses her lips and nods. “Just checking.” She climbs back up to her bunk without another word.

Two minutes later, Spencer hears the incensed, Spanish shouting coming down the hall. Buffy and Boomer are dragging a very wet, very naked Santana into the cell block corridor, thrashing and cursing everyone in the guards’ family trees and then some.

Boomer punches Santana twice quickly in the face to get her to shut up, surely delivering a black eye, then tightens the lock on her arms behind her back. But the moment Santana sees who summoned her here, she relaxes completely and smiles.

Agent Starling takes a few steps forward and stops about two feet from Santana’s face, looking very serious.

Santana licks at her bloody lip and gives the woman’s body a long look up and down. “Hello, Clarice. Nice threads. You look good enough to eat.”

Spencer rolls her eyes.

“It’s been a long time,” Santana continues. “Two years? Two and a half?”

“Nearly four,” Agent Starling replies.

“Damn. Well, it’s good to see you again. If I’d known you were coming, I might’ve even gotten dressed.” Spencer doubts that. “After all, these little visits are how you remind me of what I really am,” Santana provokes.

Spencer can only see the agent in profile, ten feet away, but the woman’s fist is clenching, and Spencer thinks her new friend is about to get bitch-slapped.

“Let me guess,” Santana continues, “You want me to cook at your next clambake or hummus festival or whatever you’re into these days, so you come all the way out here because I didn’t RSVP the Evite. I’m flattered, really, but I’m kind of busy with the whole life-in-prison thing. Which you should know, as you’re the one who put me here, so. No can do.”

“It’s game over, Lopez. We found your tools,” the agent says, sounding proud of herself.

Santana doesn’t look phased by that. “Took you long enough. We do love a good tool box, don’t we?” Santana gives her a wink as Agent Starling turns to leave.

“Let’s go.”

“Where are you taking her?” Spencer shouts, holding the bars.

_Are they seriously not even going to let her get dressed first? What is going on?_

She’s ignored, as usual, as they drag Santana down the cell block, laughing and throwing Spanish slander all the way. Spencer only has a minute at most to process what just happened before Greggs arrives on the scene with the freshly-showered and visibly perturbed Lucy and Faith.

“What’s going on?” Lucy asks Spencer as the door closes behind them.

Faith’s shaking the water out of her hair onto Spencer’s bed. “Yeah, didn’t figure Hannibal Licked-her would be the first of us hauled out of here.”

“Wait, wh--” Spencer stares for a moment before the nickname registers, but then --

_…Oh, oh my god._

_“A long history of eating young women”_

_The Eat or Not game…_

_“You look good enough to eat.”_

_OH MY GOD._

_She’s a…ew ew ew ew ew ew ew ew._

_And I let her...EW EW EW EW EW EW EW_

“Spencer!” Lucy’s sharp voice snaps her back. “Where is she? Where did they take her?”

“I, uh…” Spencer says, trying to act normal when she’s really about to hurl. “I don’t know. It was the FBI.”

Lucy prompts her to continue, with sincere interest. “What’s ‘FBI’?”

Spencer blinks. “Are you serious?”

_Where is this girl from, Mars?_

Faith waves her off and says, “Did she say anything about either of us? To the feds?”

“No.” Spencer isn’t even really sure what Santana _was_ talking about, but no names came up.

Faith turns to Lucy and crosses her arms. “Ten bucks says this is about Brittany.”

“Bucks?” Lucy asks, and Spencer’s starting to wonder if Lucy’s been drinking shampoo in the shower or huffing space paint from her craft closet.

“She said something about finding her tools,” Spencer offers, blinking.

Faith exhales and slinks back against the bed. “Fuck. That’s all that was keeping her out of the chair. The murder was just circumstantial or whatever. They couldn’t prove shit.”

So, that was probably the last time Spencer will ever see Santana, she realizes. Given this new insight into her extra-curriculars, she can’t say she’s not relieved, but it’s hard losing one of her new allies, just when they were starting to feel like a team. It keeps feeling like as soon as she makes one, they’re ripped away from her.

_Focus._

“Who’s Brittany?” she asks Faith.

“Ex-girlfriend. Story is, they were a big thing in high school. Quinn knew her, too.”

Lucy glares, hearing the name, but Spencer’s heart skips a beat.

_Oh my god._

_Quinn’s missing toe._

Faith rolls up her sleeve. “They were those kinds of cheerleader bitches who run the school and date all the jocks and pee on freshmen who don’t give up their lunch money.” Spencer doesn’t think that’s how it works, but she’s not going to interrupt. “So, they’re doing it in the locker room, and Santana’s, like, biting on Brittany’s shoulder or something, then just sinks her teeth in and rips out a chunk. Tears it right off.”

“WHAT?” Spencer is freaking out.

“Yeah, so she said. Guess there wasn’t much left of her. Pretty fucked up. I mean, I’ve killed things that eat people, but that’s just nasty.”

_Okay, nope, I don’t miss Santana anymore._

Mostly she’s freaked because _this insane cannibal person_ was recently face-first in her vagina. A _lot._ She’s going to need the longest shower of her life just to wash this off her skin.

“I think it started with the Brittany thing,” Faith continues as she stretches out in her bunk. “And then there were all the college girls after that. News thought it was bears or something, from how much of a shit-mess the crime scenes were.”

“Amateur,” Lucy says dismissively, then pauses, furrows her brow and asks, “What are bears?”

Spencer stares again, just so very confused. _“Bears?”_  The terror and mystique of Lucy Fabray is rapidly deconstructing before her very eyes. And for someone who claims to love animals, she sure doesn’t fucking know of many.

Faith isn’t paying any attention to Lucy’s special brand of naivete, trapped in a world of envisioning Santana Lopez’s murder spree. “She was a big deal, once they figured out it was a person. She chewed through, like, five sororities before some bounty hunter named Polly Holliday finally hauled her gay ass up here.”

“Holly,” Lucy corrects her.

“Whatever.”

Spencer can’t wrap her head around this and just has to ask, “And all this time you’ve been living with her, you haven’t worried she would...you know. Eat you?”

“That’s crimist,” says Lucy.

Spencer makes a face. “Excuse me _?”_

“Like racist or sexist, but for crimes,” explains Faith.

“That’s not a word!” Spencer balks.

“Just because _you_ killed someone doesn’t mean you’re gonna kill me, right?” Faith sounds so matter-of-fact about it.

Well. Now that she knows what kind of _very fucking important information_ her cellmates are keeping from her, Spencer’s not so sure. “Forgive me for thinking there’s a difference between assault with a deadly weapon, which we have no access to up here anyway, and EATING PEOPLE WITH YOUR FACE.”

“Dude, relax,” Faith says. “You weren’t her type, anyway. Hanni-bulldyke loves blondes for breakfast. Brittany, Quinn, that short chick from Wicked…”

Spencer looks immediately to Lucy, the blondest person in space prison, with wide-eyed concern. “Um.”

Lucy grins modestly. “She’s not stupid.”

_Fair enough._

Spencer’s eye catches a guard walking past their cell and she watches for a moment before turning back to Faith. “Did she...ever eat any prisoners?”

“Nah.” Faith’s picking intensely at something on the side of her boob as she talks. “Didn’t need to, I guess, as long as she had regular servings of Big Sweaty Meat for dinner.”

_Wait…_

“No…” Spencer swallows a lump in her throat. “That’s not…”

Faith stops picking and grins at Spencer, looking more than a little feral. “Ground up people chunks?”

That pushes her over the edge. Spencer can’t move her feet fast enough to empty her stomach’s contents into the shoddy toilet.

Over the sound of her own retching, she distantly hears Lucy saying, “You can’t keep telling all the new girls that. Eventually one was going to believe you.”

Faith looks pretty proud of herself. “Hey, until someone tells me what it actually is, I’ll believe what I want.”

Spencer wipes her chin and flushes the toilet, slowly dragging herself back to the nearest bed _(Santana’s, ugggh)_ to recover. “Screw you, too.”

She needs to change the subject. _Now._

“So,” she begins slowly, “The FBI put Santana in here, and they can just waltz in and take her back out. Just like that.”

“Yep,” Faith says. “That’s the deal. If you get sent here by the system like it’s any other prison, you can get paroled on schedule like anywhere else. But if you’re sent here special by someone who paid to lock you up off-planet, then they’re the only ones who can undo it.”

Based on what little she remembers from her shitty lawyer, Spencer’s not sure she knows which category she falls into. Or which one she’s hoping for. “Who put you in here?” she asks Faith, hoping it’s not too personal a question.

“Watcher’s Council.” Spencer has no idea what that is. “Didn’t like my methods,” Faith continues. “When you kill things for a living, there’s gonna be some collateral damage, right? I guess I just...skipped to that part.”

“She stabs anything that moves,” Lucy offers, to clarify the point, then goes back to her Snow White paint-by-numbers book. She’s working on a page with the evil queen surveying her kingdom.

Seems appropriate.

“What about you?” Spencer asks.

Lucy applies some water to a section that immediately turns purple. “I don’t stab people.”

“No, --” Spencer closes her eyes and counts to three. “Did someone put you in here?”

Lucy’s quiet for a moment, eyes on the page, brush still in her hand. Spencer’s never seen her so hesitant, so withdrawn.

She looks more like Quinn than ever.

After a moment, the brush moves again, and Lucy acts like the question doesn’t bother her. “I don’t really remember,” she offers. “It was a long time ago.”

For the first time, Spencer sees Lucy as a real, flawed, scared person, not the prison parody she’s been trying to solve for three months. The power play is all an act to hide how much control she doesn’t have over her own life. It’s so clear now, and so simple.

Spencer actually feels sorry for her. “I don’t know who put me in here, either,” she says quietly.

They share a quiet look, and something changes between them. There’s a connection, however small, and Spencer offers a small smile as a peace offering, a truce. Lucy returns it, eyes shining.

But then, Spencer remembers that this girl is in prison for killing people with a chainsaw and wonders how long ago it could have been if Lucy has no memory of it.

_Was she sawing people in half at age four?_

Spencer doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse. “Where were you, before here?” she asks, delicately.

“Another ship,” Lucy says. “Where I was born.”

_Wait, what?_

Spencer couldn’t hide her reaction if she tried. “You were born on a spaceship?” Just like that, the fleeting thoughts of Lucy being a normal person are revoked. Sympathy, gone. This girl’s just batshit crazy.

“Mmhmm,” Lucy says. “It was bigger than this one; everything was white and bright, like a giant canvas. My family worked there. They were scientists. I don’t remember much. I had my pets and some books and toys, but I didn’t really have friends. There weren’t many kids my age. Nobody wanted to play games with me. I did a lot of arts and crafts. The grown-ups cared about the ship staying very clean and didn’t like when I drew on the walls with my crayons.”

It couldn’t have been very big, Spencer thinks. She doesn’t know anything about ships outside of NASA, much less ones that have working families on them. “How many people were on the ship?”

“Thirty-seven,” Lucy says in a deeper voice, then looks at Spencer a bit pointedly before dabbing more water onto her painting.

Spencer’s eyes widen in realization -- she’s heard that number before. “Ah.” If she hadn’t already retched, now would be a great time for that.

“I thought _I_ came from a broken home,” Faith offers from her bunk. “At least my friends didn’t want to play Chainsaw Tag.”

“It’s more fun than you think,” says Lucy. The scary part is, she sounds completely sincere. She always does.

Spencer wants to scream, _“WHY?”_  and just break down crying, because this has to be the most vile, soulless group of people she has ever met. But she’s too overwhelmed with everything already and doesn’t think she can handle any more. The more they talk, the worse it gets. “I need a nap,” is all she can string together before climbing pathetically into her bunk.

How is this all real? How has she been living with – _having group sex with_ \-- such egregious, unapologetic murderers? This amount of crime is on some whole other level. Yeah, she didn’t really feel bad about what she did to Toby, but it was personal. It wasn’t about the act of killing, itself. Spencer wouldn’t go kill other people, random strangers. She’s not like that. And she sure as hell doesn’t get turned on by the thought of killing someone. The bottom line is, Spencer has nothing in common with these girls.

She shouldn’t be here.

And that’s when she realizes -- since she doesn’t know who put her here, Spencer doesn’t know who has the power to get her out. Or if they even would. If it was her parents, then she has hope. They couldn’t leave her to rot in this hellhole. But the police? The government? _A?!_  She has no idea who -- or what – she’s dealing with. Two months has already been horrible enough; how is she supposed to survive thirty years? She’s already been told she won’t get past Christmas, and that’s assuming the spider grants her amnesty until then. What about all the other terrible people who love to kill so much? God, she still can’t believe Santana _eats people_. How is that possible?

Every day, Spencer learns of another horrible way to die in this place.

Her mind fills with visions of Santana, crouched over a random blonde’s decimated body on the steps of a sorority, face covered in blood, grinning. Or in bed with Quinn, kissing her feet playfully, sucking on a toe with a gleam in her eye, then biting down hard and ripping it off. The piercing sound of Quinn screaming in agony. Santana’s heartless laugh, echoing in her ears.

Spencer opens her eyes to let the blank, gray wall wash it away. Readjusting her position, she rubs at her eyes and reaches under her pillow to cushion her head. Her fingers scrape against the book cover map of notes she took from Quinn, tucked safely inside Jenny’s journal, and she pulls it out to examine it again, this mystery of prisoners disappearing, and, according to Sue, at least one pile of gnashed up remains.

Suddenly, everything feels very, very wrong.

...Santana.

_SANTANA._

_Oh my god._

It hasn’t been Charlotte at all.

There’s no such thing as killer spiders in outer space. One little spider couldn’t break into a jail cell and remove an entire human being, gravity or not. What was she thinking? What’s _wrong_ with her? Spencer really must be going crazy.

If Hermione hasn’t been rescuing girls, Santana’s been eating them.

Her mind races at a blinding pace, reconstructing everything that’s happened since she arrived. Santana runs Knitting class and probably has access to enough string to construct a web in her cell. Maybe she bribed a guard – probably Buffy, since she likes blondes so much -- to let her in while Spencer slept. Or maybe Santana has a set of keys and broke these women out of their cells. Then she led them to the cafeteria with promises of wild and crazy no-gravity sex, and….

Spencer shivers. It all makes sense now. Hell, maybe Lucy helped. Or Faith. Maybe they know exactly how Santana did it.

She feels so fucking betrayed. Her heart plummets into her stomach, and she feels all alone, trapped with these wild animals who could tear her apart at a moment’s notice. If she breathes a word of what she’s deduced to either of her cellmates, they could end her, in cold blood, still loyal to Santana. If they’re complicit, they can’t have her talking to the authorities.

Getting herself transferred in here was the stupidest thing Spencer’s done yet. She’s used up her requests; they’ll never grant her a third one.

She closes her eyes again and replays the new film reel over and over in her mind, like a horror movie she can’t look away from. And Spencer knows she wouldn’t be obsessing about this or feeling so fucked up about it if they hadn’t slept together. Rationally, she knows that. But it doesn’t change anything.

She tries to take comfort in the fact that, if it really was Santana, the threat has been removed. She’s safe now, at least in theory. You know, from that one particular threat. It doesn’t really make her feel any safer, though, and Spencer wonders if she’ll ever be able to convince herself that she’s not in danger here.

Maybe that’s her gut trying to tell her that it wasn’t Santana, that she’s wrong. It would be all too convenient that the mystery’s just -- _poof!_ \-- solved, without Spencer having to actually do anything.

_Fuck._

Rolling over to face the aisle, she watches Faith do pull-ups on the bed frame and thinks about their earlier conversation. Suddenly, the details come rushing back, and everything changes again.

Faith said Santana hadn’t killed anyone here.

She said it, and she meant it -- and wouldn’t she know? Wouldn’t Lucy have corrected her? They were pretty forthcoming about Ripley’s murders, so it’s not like they’re trying to protect Spencer from anything.

_Are they?_

But then, why not ever mention the cannibalism?

Maybe they lied right to her face. But Faith also said Santana likes blondes, and all five women who’ve disappeared have been brunettes, not to mention Faith, herself. That doesn’t add up, either. Santana’s smart, so it’s possible she’d throw them off the trail by choosing non-obvious targets, but it doesn’t match her pattern. People can change, but killers rarely do.

Spencer’s new, airtight theory is suddenly rife with holes big enough for Aphasia to drive a van through, but it’s Spencer who’s crashing this time.

Curling up into a ball, she tries to focus on what seems the most real. The low buzz of the lights in the corridor. The scratching of the plain, white sheet against her skin. The way the mattress crinkles when she shifts her weight.

Lucy’s finishing a fourth watercolor picture and enjoying the simple pleasures of prison life without a care in the world. Spencer tries to call forth the memory of Quinn’s gentle touch, of drawing chalk pictures with Aphasia, of going to the mall with Aria, of playing at the beach with her sister. But it doesn’t feel real.

She can’t remember a time when she wasn’t afraid.

And that’s when Spencer finally lets herself cry.

Two months, two _horrible_ months, and she isn’t any closer to finding out where these girls are disappearing to. She’s back at square one and doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

She just has to believe in something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice's list is based [on a list our friend](http://tgifemslash.com/assets/images/spaceprison/kelseylist.jpg) made in a video once. (We love you, friend.) Also, all due credit and respect to the Tumblr infamy of [Lunchbag Rodriguez](https://colafer.tumblr.com/post/39468607594/my-name-is-luna-enriquez), bless.


	35. Infiltrated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

According to Spencer’s calculations, she has two and a half weeks -- about eighteen days -- before the next Shark Week when the next inmate is mysteriously killed. It’s enough time (she hopes) to get to know Lucy better and figure out what the connection is between the spider and Jenny Schecter and Santana (and Ripley?), or whatever other pieces are in this puzzle. She knows there has to be _something_ she’s missing, and she still has time.

Beating them means joining them, and Spencer is taking the task of getting to the bottom of Lucy Fabray very seriously. Or, at least, _being_ a bottom for Lucy Fabray. _(Same thing, right?)_ These girls don’t let a bloodless day go by without some hardcore sexual shenanigans, and Spencer doesn’t want to exclude herself from the group, especially now that Santana’s gone and it’s just the three of them, lest she raise suspicion about her purposes here. It’s all still strictly business.

Yes, that.

Having four or more orgasms a day is really quite the hardship and takes a toll on her body, but she’s dealing. It’s merely a physical response, just going through the motions. She gets no emotional sustenance from having multiple mouths and hands on and in her at once for hours on end.

Really.

Purely research and survival.

_Right._

Though, to be completely honest, she wishes Round Three didn’t often coincide with Madonna Power Hour, because there’s just something about being fingerbanged to “Cherish” that doesn’t sit right with her.

On Thursday, Sue treats the prisoners to a movie night in the Mess Hall for a showing of Monster, wheeled out on a rickety TV cart like Spencer’s seen in old 80s high school movies. She didn’t even think people _had_ VCRs anymore. Especially in space.

Sue gives a speech beforehand about how she hopes the lead character will inspire them to greatness in their murderous aspirations but that they’ll all make better choices to not get caught. Spencer can’t help but wonder if Sue’s giving a certain secret killer a pep talk. But then, the thought of the warden being in on this is too scary to entertain without proof. Spencer dealt with enough dirty cop bullshit in Rosewood and isn’t looking to relive that here. For now, she can call it a reprise of Sue’s boast in their first conversation and still sleep at night.

Spencer sits with Lucy and Faith just like she does at meals, but now she’s on Lucy’s right instead of across from them. It’s not lost on her how things have changed. She seems to have been completely adopted by these two, like she’s Santana’s official replacement in their power trio. _(Thank god I'm a brunette.)_ It frightens her how similar the situation is to back home, though this arrangement is...well, a bit more hands-on.

Being a part of a power group has its perks, as Spencer knows quite well. They don’t have to wait in line at meals. They get priority shower times. They get first dibs on signing up for classes. Raven even throws in an extra half-can of booze when trading, based on what Spencer has learned are the standard prison rates. Well, _Lucy_ gets all of these privileges, and Faith and Spencer ride her coattails into the sunset. If there were a sun nearby.

Things could be worse.

Spencer still hasn’t talked to Quinn since the, uh, accidental fisting. She can’t get unsupervised time away from her new queen bee to see where things stand between them. Quinn is still in her heart, but Spencer’s not about to show it now that she’s Lucy Fabray’s minion. There’s too much bile between those two, though Spencer still doesn’t know why. And Lucy intentionally keeps a great distance between them and Quinn. So much distance, in fact, that Spencer almost forgets that Quinn’s even in the prison at all.

Almost.

The following Sunday, Spencer notices Hermione back in the Mess Hall at breakfast for the first time in weeks. She’s gone by dinner’s end, with the same whip _crack_ disappearing act, same boisterous applause. Spencer can’t see Aphasia from where she’s sitting but hopes they at least got to spend some time together in a class or something today.

Little things mean a lot in this place.

As Spencer’s waiting to dump the remaining contents of her tray into the waste bin, Vee slides into line behind her, following along suspiciously close.

“I hear you have access to Sylvester’s office,” Vee says. Her tone has the friendly nature of a question, but Spencer feels Vee already knows the answer.

She pushes her tray forward again. “Maybe.”

“It would be in your best interest to procure a particular item for me,” Vee says carefully.

Considering she’s never spoken to Vee before, Spencer’s not sure just how much of a threat this is. But she’s pretty tired of being pushed around and feeling more confident now with her power clique. “I don’t know you,” she says, turning to look Vee square in the eye. “You’re not worth the risk. Sorry.”

“I can offer you something in return. Something you desperately need.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that,” Spencer asks. Unless this woman is about to say “a conjugal visit with Quinn,” she’s not interested.

“Protection.”

It gives Spencer pause, but only for a second. “Not much use for condoms up here. Thanks, though.” She wants this conversation to be over.

Vee doesn’t seem to mind the joke. “We both know the women in here are far more dangerous than any man you’ve ever met. I can help you.”

Her new social status is offering her all the protection she needs, at least for the time being. Killer spider notwithstanding. With a glance over to Faith and Santana, Spencer says, “I think I’m doing just fine, thanks.”

Vee laughs good-naturedly, leaning in as if to share a secret. “That’s precisely who I’m offering you protection _from,_ dear.”

For a moment, everything stops, as the implications of this simple sentence crash all around her.

_“MOVE.”_

Spencer snaps back at the noise and shuffles along the line, tipping the stale bread crusts into the plastic bin. She senses the closeness before she feels Vee’s breath by her ear.

“Bring me Hermione Granger’s file, and I’ll tell you who your friends _really_ are.”

****************

That night, Spencer finds Lucy in the middle of the floor talking through her “most exciting ideas” for Play-Doh Funhouse the next day. It seems as good a time as any to dig for information, what with Lucy in such a good, sharing mood. If she can root out the truth herself, she won’t need to get involved with Aphasia’s arch-nemesis. Spencer feels a certain loyalty there, even though she’s not sure if she would really call them friends. Aphasia trusted her with her secret, and that has to mean something, right?

“You seem to really get into this teaching thing,” Spencer says, leaning over the edge of the bed.

Lucy smiles graciously. “It’s fun. I like getting to do different things with my arts and crafts. It stretches me as an instructor.”

“I’m happy to help you stretch,” Faith offers from her bunk with a sly grin.

In a flash, Lucy charges over and rears back with her left, slapping Faith clear across the face. Even from the awkward angle of reaching up to the top bunk, the strike sounds clear like a whip. _“You’ll speak when I say so!”_  Lucy barks, hovering eye to eye with her subject for a moment. Then, without another word, she resumes her lesson plan with a pleasant smile like nothing happened.

Spencer’s frozen on the spot through this whole thing, because Lucy’s _fucking scary_ when she wants to be, but Faith doesn’t react, other than to stretch out her cheek when Lucy walks away. So, at least the situation isn’t escalating. It’s Sunday, which Spencer’s secretly renamed Slapday -- Lucy and Faith’s weekly arrangement for silence, much like Quinn and Mack’s Wednesday spank-athons.

These girls are really into their power play and hitting people.

Whatever passes the time.

This is the side of Lucy that Spencer suspected was there from the beginning, hiding just beneath the sugary surface of unicorns and pink icing. Like most of the things she’s been right about in this place, Spencer doesn’t know if it makes her feel better or worse.

She gulps and tries to get the conversation back on track from the interruption. _What the hell was I supposed to be asking about? Oh, right._ Sitting on the edge of her bed, she surveys the spread of colored dough cans, pom pom balls, and glitter bottles in the middle of the room.

“You know, when I was a kid,” Spencer offers, “I remember taking a ball of Play-Doh and sticking eight toothpicks into the sides like legs to make a spider. Have you all done that yet?”

_A+ for subtlety, Hastings. Bravo._

“What a terrific idea!” Lucy beams. “They don’t give us toothpicks anymore, since Vasquez used one to pull a girl’s eye out, but I bet we could find some pipe cleaners in the craft closet.”

“Terrific,” Spencer replies through gritted teeth, as she tries _really_ hard to erase that mental image. “I remember you saying you liked spiders.”

“I do, very much so,” Lucy smiles. “When I was little, I had a pet spider on my ship.”

_…Jackpot._

Spencer’s heart starts pounding out of her chest. Her eyes must be the size of saucers, but she tries to play it cool.

“I thought you had a cat?” Spencer says as casually as she can, remembering the horror that was her first day in Play-Doh Funhouse.

Faith knocks repeatedly on the bed frame with her knuckles, drawing their attention. Apparently, she wishes to speak. Lucy isn’t amused by the interruption and seems to consider the request. Faith’s eyes are _pleading_.

Lucy’s face softens, and she says, “Do you have something to contribute, Faith?”

Faith nods emphatically, like she’s about to burst.

_What the hell could she be so desperate to share?_

If it’s useful information, Spencer’s suddenly resenting that this conversation is coming to light on Faith’s goddamn day of silence.

Another long pause. Lucy’s making her pay for interrupting. “Four sentences,” she says, sounding bored with the situation, and goes back to molding a clump of blue dough.

Faith releases the laugh she’s been holding back. “Yeah, that thing you saw in her painting...wasn’t a cat.”

Spencer’s eyebrows rise.

“You’re a nerd,” Faith prefaces innocently. “You know those furry ball things on Star Wars or whatever?”

“...Tribbles? From Star Trek?”

“Yeah, well, they’re real, and _that_ was her ‘cat’,” Faith says, using air quotes.

“SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL AND I LOVED HER,” Lucy yells, clearly pissed they’re making fun of her when she’s not in on the joke. She takes a deep breath and continues, more calmly. “After that, I had a spider. I named her Beth.”

“Not ‘Lady Princess Spiderkins the Fourth’?” Faith asks, propping her feet up on the ceiling.

Lucy turns with hellfire in her eyes and storms over again, not hesitating to slap Faith a second time, even harder. _“THA_ T WAS FIVE. WATCH YOUR FILTHY MOUTH, WHORE.” It’s like Lucy’s lips opened and a demon came out. It’s other worldly.

The color drains from Faith’s (burning, stinging) face but she doesn’t protest, nor did she even defend herself from the slap, Spencer realizes. But then as Lucy sits back down, Spencer sees the faintest smile creep across Faith’s face. Almost like she did it on purpose. And Spencer’s pretty sure that when Faith rolls back over to face the wall, a hand creeps into her jumpsuit.

The whole moment stunned Spencer so thoroughly that she didn’t even register what Lucy said prior. “Sorry,” she shakes her head, “You were saying?”

Lucy motions for Spencer to climb down and sit beside her, and Spencer begrudgingly agrees. “My spider, Beth.” Lucy’s rolling a perfect green ball of dough now and speaking pleasantly like nothing happened. “She was a loyal friend,” she says wistfully, beaming. It’s truly stunning how she can alternate personas like this. “I still see her sometimes.”

Spencer doesn’t want to have _those_ dreams, thank you very much. “That’s sweet,” is the only thing she can think to say. She can’t shake the feeling that if she said the wrong thing here, she’d get bitch-slapped into the next cell, safeword or not.

Lucy sets down the green ball and reaches for the canister of orange dough, handing it to Spencer before taking the purple for herself. “You saw her in the bathroom that day.” A pause. “When you were trying to _kill her_.” Her eyes narrow dangerously but don’t look up.

Spencer’s heart stops.

_Oh. My. God._

_Beth._

_ELIZABETH._

_Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit._

_I KNEW IT._

_Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit._

_I was right. I WAS RIGHT._

_NOW, DON’T GET DEAD._

“Ok, whoa, hold on,” Spencer says, hands raised in surrender. “I had _no_ idea she was your, uh, your pet.” A nervous twitch flickers in her right eye. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Would knowing she was mine stop you from trying to hurt her?” Lucy looks up, and in that moment, the raw emotion in her eyes sends a dagger through Spencer, because all she sees is _Quinn_. “I didn’t think so. Plus, you seemed a little preoccupied at the time to hear my childhood stories,” she adds.

_To say the least._

“Look, Lucy, I wouldn’t…” but she doesn’t know what to say that’s not an outright lie. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”

 _The next time I see your spider, I won’t just hurt her, I’ll kill her on the spot_.

Lucy peers at her for a moment, like she’s taking stock of Spencer’s apology and weighing it accordingly. She seems satisfied enough and continues her tale. “She was like a daughter to me for a long time. I fed her, took care of her. We did everything together. I was lucky enough to bring her with me when I came here. We’ve been together a very long time.”

_Time to play stupid._

“So, why’s she in the bathroom and not here with you now?” Spencer already knows the answer to that, or at least she thinks she does, but she needs to hear how much Lucy knows about her pet’s extra-curricular activities. Even if it’s a lie, it’s a starting place.

“A few years ago, I shared her with another inmate who needed her, a girl named Jenny. She was quiet and shy and didn’t really have any friends. I reached out to her, but she didn’t seem to want to talk to anyone. But Beth could write to her, and I think Jenny liked that. They were both writers. Beth’s very smart, you know. And I believe they got quite close.”

_Yeah, maybe TOO close._

“I’ve heard of Jenny,” Spencer says, mindful not to show her cards. “She died, right?” Lucy just nods. It’s taking all of Spencer’s willpower not to ask “How?” but she doesn’t want this to turn from a chat between friends into an interrogation. She doesn’t want to push too hard. Instead, Spencer says carefully, “I guess...Beth didn’t come back to you, then? That must be really hard.”

Lucy looks like she’s trying to put on a brave face. “She’s probably making new friends. There are plenty of girls here who need someone to talk to. I still see her around from time to time.” Lucy looks back down at her Play-Doh, pulling a chunk apart, then stops altogether. “I just wish she’d want to come home. I’ve been in here for years; it’s not like she doesn’t know where to find me.”

Spencer can’t believe what she’s hearing. This was easier than she thought. Lucy Fabray _has_ been holding the key to this mystery the whole time. Jenny’s Elizabeth is Lucy’s Beth, who is Spencer’s Charlotte. _(Because THAT’S not confusing.)_

Or at least, it has to be the same one. How many web-writing spiders can there be on a spaceship?

And when Jenny died, why did Beth choose _Spencer_ as her new friend? Was that on Lucy’s orders, too, or just happenstance? The sadness on Lucy’s face seems sincere, but it’s not like she hasn’t proved her ability to be duplicitous.

Either way, the biggest question still remains: Did Beth kill Jenny or not?

She must have, right? She _said_ she did, in the web. And was that on Lucy’s command? Spencer remembers the journal entries -- Right now, Jenny’s hate for Lucy sounds pretty one-sided, but far be it from Spencer to take anything Lucy Fabray says at face value. Girl doesn’t know what a fucking bear is.

Well. If Lucy knows that Beth is killing people, she’s not letting on. Spencer doesn’t want to push too hard, but if she’s going to continue down this rabbit hole, she has to keep Lucy talking. It would be too suspicious to bring it up again later.

“I didn’t really have a pet growing up,” Spencer says. “I thought about getting a lizard once, but I didn’t know what I’d have to feed it.” She waits a few seconds, then adds, as naturally as she can, “Spiders eat insects, don’t they?” She winces at the sound of her own voice, because it’s hard to ask such an obvious question innocently and not sound stupid. Spiders don’t _eat_ their prey, they drink the blood. Anyone with a middle school education knows that. Spencer’s pulse is pounding in her ears. To cover the noise, she adds, “This place is pretty disgusting, but at least there aren’t any bugs.”

She tries to anticipate the explanation of an on-board bug supply, but even things like Aphasia’s jar or Idgie’s bee supply wouldn’t be enough to sustain a spider over a long period of time. There must be something else.

“Insects?” Lucy laughs. “Goodness, no. That’s silly talk. No spider of mine would ever eat any of _that_. She always preferred human flesh t--”

Spencer chokes on air and drops her Play-Doh. “WHAT?! _People?!”_

_AHA! I KNEW IT!_

“Only if they’re already dead!” Lucy seems taken aback by Spencer’s judgment. “She would never hurt anyone. She’s very gentle.”

Spencer’s trying hard to play it cool, but she just can’t deal with this. Confirmed flesh-eating spider was _living in her bed_.

_But, you know, she would never kill me herself, just play the vulture, so that’s incredibly comforting, thank you._

And now it’s time for the million-dollar question. Spencer’s a dead woman anyway, at this point, so what does she have to lose? “So, all these years, there have just been...dead people lying around for her to eat…” It’s such a loaded question, but Spencer can’t help herself. This madness has to stop.

“Unfortunately, no,” Lucy says coolly, which does nothing to ease Spencer’s mind. “I haven’t been able to provide for her in a long time.”

_Provide for her._

Lucy makes it sound so maternal. Yes, since the dawn of time, the best mothers have chainsawed innocent people in half to feed their young.

“But one of the meat patties from the kitchen can last her months,” she says. “It’s not the best diet, of course, with all those preservatives, but she does fine.”

_Oh god._

_The Big Sweaty Meat._

Spencer remembers, _“That’s for your girl. Tell her it’s from me.”_

Was Suzanne trying to _help_ by throwing her food that day? Does she know Beth, too? If so, why hasn’t she said anything about it?

“I promise, you have nothing to worry about,” Lucy continues. “Even when she’s on a natural diet, spiders can go a very long time without eating.”

“That’s great,” Spencer manages. She can only imagine what the expression on her face must look like. Even if Beth is supposedly living on the BSM, Spencer’s not convinced she hasn’t reverted to her ‘natural diet’. Not with all these fresh, juicy prisoners just lying around like fruit on the vine. And Sue’s just bringing in new shipments all the time. A never-ending food supply. The cell block is a goddamn all-you-can-eat buffet.

“Beth is a very loving creature. Misunderstood, like you and me. We all do what we have to do to survive, but we’re not born killers.” Lucy pauses for a moment, looking at Spencer with a more thoughtful expression. “When you first got here, you felt like your whole life had been turned upside down. I don’t have to ask -- I know what it’s like. But, we adapt. We learn how to survive. Beth’s a tough girl. She adapted.”

_This new definition of “adapt” must be “eat any corpse I can find.”_

Spencer really hopes Santana didn’t “adapt” to space prison, too.

_Oh god._

“Well, you raised her,” Spencer says, swallowing back the frightening pictures in her mind, “so she must have learned strength from watching you.”

She bites back the _“I bet she learned how to slaughter people from you, too,”_ and squeezes Lucy’s hand again instead.

Lucy smiles. “You’re sweet.” She reflects on Spencer’s words and says, “I like to think so.”

Spencer’s eyes widen momentarily before she remembers she didn’t say the slaughter bit out loud.

Fortunately, Lucy’s still looking at Spencer and doesn’t see Faith, behind her, silently putting a finger down her throat, pretending to puke at the display of emotion. Spencer can only imagine what Lucy would do about that. Probably shove the pink Play-Doh down there, instead.

(It appears that all the talk of flesh-eating was enough to kill Faith’s lady-boner, as her hands are now both free and clear of the jumpsuit.)

And yeah, it _was_ a fucking cheesy thing for Spencer to say, but whatever. Spencer needs Lucy on her side, if only so she keeps spilling information. The pieces are falling into place so rapidly now. Tonight, Spencer gets to fall asleep knowing that there _is_ a meat-eating spider on board this ship, like she’s been saying for two months.

Somehow, that’s supposed to be reassuring.

But the mystery is far from solved, especially if she’s only helping dispose of the corpses and someone else is doing the actual murder. _(Do spiders eat bones? Or internal organs? Does she really have to think about this?)_

For all of Lucy’s knowledge, she still seems incredibly naive, and Spencer’s convinced that Beth is, in fact, killing these girls. _How_ , she doesn’t know, but this gut check feels right.

Maybe staying close to her cellmates _will_ keep Spencer safe, either out of loyalty to Lucy, or simply because Beth’s keeping her distance. Doesn’t matter to her. Spencer’s finally been given a reason to be glad she made this transfer after all, and _that_ is why she will sleep soundly tonight.

So, she decides to quit while she is ahead. This is certainly enough confirmation for now -- the _flesh-eating_ part, especially -- and Spencer wants more time to sort through all this before she pushes further.

“I do miss her,” Lucy says. “She’s a good listener, like you.”

_Fantastic. I was hoping we’d have a lot in common._

Lucy quietly smooshes her clay for a moment, then says, “That day in the bathroom, Beth wasn’t going to hurt you, you know. There was only one person in there who would hurt you, Spencer.” The sympathetic look on her face implies she didn’t mean herself, and Spencer’s heart drops. Not just because she doesn’t want to believe Quinn would ever hurt her, but because she doesn’t like that Lucy thinks she would. “You’re better off with us.”

Faith holds up a silent thumbs-up in agreement.

“Good girl,” Lucy catches Faith’s gesture and smiles at her. “You may join our conversation now, if you like. I suspect you have your opinions, too.”

Spencer isn’t sure she wants to hear what these girls have to say about Quinn, but it seems there’s no stopping that now that Faith’s been unmuted.

“Quinn is...not the kind of girl you want to get emotionally attached to,” Lucy says carefully. “Trust me. Besides, you fit in much better here. I always knew you would.”

Spencer doesn’t want to know what’s making Lucy say and think that, and she isn’t even sure if she disagrees. Her former cellmates -- both sets -- are nothing short of batshit crazy, and Spencer certainly had her endless hours of living in fear under Mack’s thumb, but it was a different kind of fear. She never felt like she was rushing for the Phi Kappa Kill Lots of People sorority until the last few weeks when she moved in here.

Spencer’s not so sure she wants this to be the place she fits in best.

But now isn’t the time to dwell and naval gaze, because Lucy’s never mentioned Quinn’s name before, and Spencer isn’t about to waste the opportunity. “What is it with you two, anyway?”

“Safety tip,” Faith interjects, because she can, “Don’t get her started on Quinn Fabray.”

_Quinn FABRAY._

_I KNEW IT._

Spencer tries to hide the fact that her pulse is racing. Half a second later, Faith adds, “Lucy’s just mad I banged her first.” That earns a stern glare from the power top, who’s probably regretting granting her permission to speak.

_But, god, is there anyone from this fucking cell who hasn’t slept with Quinn?_

Spencer wants to punch Faith _so badly_ right now, just knock that fucking smug smirk right off her face. But that’s probably against the Sunday rules. Faith’s cocky attitude reminds her far too much of Mack.

Quinn did say she was hopelessly drawn to brunettes. That’s held up tonight, if nothing else has.

Spencer needs a drink, or nine, or for her jealousy to light her on fire. Where’s Raven and the Moonshine Express when you need it? Not that she has anything of value to swap for it. Spencer doesn’t even have a pair of goddamn panties to her name.

So instead, she has to swallow her rage and refocus on the bigger issue at hand, because they’ve just confirmed Quinn and Lucy are in fact related. They’re acting like this isn’t a revelation by any stretch, and, really, it’s not to Spencer, either. It’s been baffling that other people couldn’t see that they’re fucking identical. But still, this feels like very base-level information. Quinn should’ve been the one telling her this. Being the last person to know shit around here is infuriating.

On the plus side, she’s starting to feel less guilty about wanting both of them. Though, a three-way seems far less likely now. Not that she was entertaining the thought. Except that she totally was.

 _Sigh_.

Lucy turns back to Spencer. “Quinn and I have...a history.”

“Hot,” Faith jokes, cracking her knuckles loudly.

 _“Not_ that kind of history!” Lucy hisses.

“Yeah, I picked up on the fact that you two aren’t exactly friends,” Spencer says.

“She’s tacky, and I hate her,” Lucy says matter-of-factly.

_Oh, if they only knew how similar they are._

Spencer’s almost afraid to ask but is dying to know. “What happened?”

Lucy pauses, like she’s torn on just how much she wants to reveal. She sighs. “Well, she’s my sister.”

_Yes, I got that, thanks._

“Everyone thinks I’m the mature, older one and she’s the little rebellious punk,” Lucy says, eyebrows high, “but it’s a lot more complicated than that. We’re actually the same age, more or less. At least, I think so.”

“You’re twins,” Spencer says, happy to help move this along a bit.

“...Something like that.”

 _What else could that possibly mean?_ Then, suddenly she remembers. “Wait, is Quinn from that spaceship, too?”

Lucy considers the question. “Technically.”

_Holy SHIT._

_She said she was from Ohio!_

_And why is this not breaking news to Faith? Is SHE from a spaceship, too?_

_IS EVERYONE HERE FROM A MOTHERFUCKING SPACESHIP?_

She’s surrounded by goddamn aliens. Spencer’s mind is _exploding_.

Lucy stares her down hard and says, strongly, “This is all private information. I don’t like to talk about this. Do you understand?”

Spencer’s throat closes and she gives a wide-eyed, subtle nod. “Yeah, no, I got it.”

With that, Lucy relaxes a bit and gives a closed smile. “I know I can trust you. You’re with me now.”

It isn’t a question. It’s very much a threat. Spencer nods again silently.

“The place where I grew up,” Lucy begins, “it was a science research ship, for genetic engineering. We were all test tube babies.”

Spencer’s going to pass out. “You’re exact genetic identicals? You’re _clones?”_

“We don’t use the c-word,” Lucy almost snarls.

Faith stifles a laugh. “Not that one.”

Lucy clears her throat and chooses to ignore Faith. “Yes, we’re all identical.” 

“‘All’?...How many is ‘we all’?” Spencer’s mind can barely keep up with this barrage of information, thinking of all the possible Quinns, or Lucys. These two were already so different, just based on their life experiences. What would these others even be like?

“At least eight, that I’m aware of.” Lucy frowns.

_EIGHT?!_

_Eight Quinns, or Lucys, or whatever, are out there._

_Holy fucking shit._

“But I don’t know where any of them are,” Lucy continues, “besides that they were sent to Earth. I hadn’t even met any of them until Quinn showed up here.”

Spencer can only imagine what a mindfuck of a day _that_ was. “So, Quinn told you about all this?”

Lucy shakes her head. “Quinn doesn’t know the whole story. At least, I don’t think she does.” She shrugs, though Spencer’s pretty sure she sees Lucy tense up just a bit. “She’s not stupid. She has to know _something_.”

Faith chimes in. “She probably thought you were gay for her when you took her last name. That’s what I’d think if some chick did that to me. That’s some Single White Female level shit right there.”

Lucy shoots her another glare.

“You changed your name?” Spencer asks. This whole thing is so completely weird.

“I never had a last name,” Lucy says. “I was a science project, not a person.” There’s a hint of sadness about it, but she owns her truth. “When Quinn arrived a few years ago, I knew right away who she was and that we were related, so I adopted her last name as my own. I think I scared her.”

“You think?!” says Faith.

Spencer silently agrees with a quick glance up to the bunk. But she’s also rebuilding empathy for Lucy now that she’s learning the truth of her situation. Being regarded as an object, as property rather than a living person…that must have had a huge impact on her development and self-esteem.

“I just wanted to get to know her, to be close to someone,” Lucy says. “I wanted to have a sister for the first time. She already had a family, with a different sister, but they were horrible to her. She said if I wanted her ‘stupid last name’, I could have it, that she didn’t want it anyway. So, she stopped using it and kept her distance from me. I think I took the name for myself because it helped me feel closer to her, still, even though she hated me. I really liked her pink hair, so I asked Sue if I could get something pink, too. She felt bad for me. I think she wanted to do something to make me feel better. So, she ordered me this uniform.”

“That’s because of Quinn?” Spencer asks. She always assumed it was just a coincidence they both had pink accessories, like how Dark Willow’s hair matches the bruises on Mack’s ass Thursday mornings.

“I just wanted some way of showing her I cared. I needed to feel close to my sister. She’s the only one I know.” Lucy takes a breath and continues. “It was unpleasant between us for a while, even hostile, but that faded. Now, we just live our own lives.”

Lucy is being more sincere and open than Spencer’s ever seen her, and it’s almost painfully sad to watch. If this girl was, in fact, raised on a spaceship without a peer group and then killed everyone on board, of course she lacks an understanding of basic social cues. She’s practically a feral beast in the jungle. It’s a wonder she’s gotten this far. But then, she seems to be a fast learner, and someone Spencer is constantly underestimating.

Which is a problem.

At the very least, Lucy’s so-called hatred of Quinn is clearly just a front to hide how hurt she is, and Spencer can’t fault her for that. What the hell would she have done in Lucy’s position? Finding out she had a half-brother sent Spencer into enough of a tailspin.

“Wow,” she offers, because anything else feels too heavy. “And you never brought up the whole test-tube-baby thing? You never talked about it?”

Lucy shakes her head again. “Every time I’d try, she’d walk away. There’s obviously a connection between us, but she’s made it quite clear she doesn’t want to know.”

“Well, she must feel something,” Spencer says. “She could’ve let her hair go back to its natural color a long time ago, but she keeps dyeing it. Maybe she feels more connected to you than you think.”

“Maybe. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to look like me,” Lucy says. “Quinn does her own thing. It’s fine.”

They both sit with that for a minute in quiet contemplation. All those conversations Spencer’s had with Quinn, there was never any inkling that she and Lucy had this complicated past. Quinn focused on her teen years and what her life was like before she came here. Spencer could relate to that easily enough. When things get scary, we go back to what we know.

_Wait a minute..._

“Is this whole...thing...common knowledge around the prison?” Spencer asks.

“I don’t know,” Lucy shrugs. “It’s not some huge secret that we’re related, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I mean the cl--,” Spencer stumbles, “the test tube stuff.”

“I told you, I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Do you think Vee knows?” Spencer asks.

Lucy’s brow furrows. “I highly doubt it.”

“She said something to me the other day like she had dirt on you guys. I thought maybe that was it.”

Faith laughs and says, “No, I know what that is.” She crosses her legs and puts her arms behind her head, reclining comfortably. “Here’s the deal. Vee runs this gang, right, and she had girls with these fucked up kinda names. Things like Tastee, Pussy….”

 _“Tasty Pussy?”_  Spencer interjects. She really, really hates that word.

“It’s Poussey,” Lucy says.

Faith turns to look over at her friend. “So, Santana’s all, ‘How do they expect me to just let that go? Their names are _literally_ delicious.’”

_Oh god._

“She...didn’t…” Spencer doesn’t want to say the rest of it.

But Faith waves the suggestion away. “Nah. Vee’s just blowing smoke up your ass because she knows Santana wanted a taste.”

 _Maybe,_ Spencer thinks, but there has to be more to it than that. Maybe Vee’s got the same Underground Railroad theory as Umbridge, and she wants something to leverage for a ticket out. Maybe this is all about Aphasia somehow, since there seems to be history and animosity between them. Or maybe Vee really does know something about Lucy and could help Spencer take her down. There’s just too much uncertainty. Speaking of which…

“But she didn’t eat those girls,” Spencer clarifies. She really needs to hear Faith say it. “I mean, like, _eat_ eat--”

“Yeah, I got it, Jenny Craig. Strict no-human diet, like I said. Chill.” Faith goes back to staring at the ceiling.

“I’m just trying to figure out why some inmates have gone missing,” Spencer says. “My old cellmate Paulie was just here two weeks ago and then disappeared overnight. I woke up and she was gone.”

Faith shrugs. “Girls come and go all the time in here.”

_And isn’t that exactly the problem._

If this disappearance conspiracy runs deeper than the ones Spencer knows about -- Stacey, Aeryn, Jenny, Alex, and Paulie -- then who knows how many girls it involves. Maybe that’s part of the point...with relatively high turnover, nobody knows who was there before, and girls don’t necessarily know when someone’s missing. Even people like Lucy who’ve been here for years wouldn’t be able to learn the names and whereabouts of all the other prisoners. Everyone’s got their own shit to think about and their own demons to face. They all have a past they can’t escape, even in space.

_Which...hang on..._

Spencer turns back to Lucy. “If Quinn doesn’t know about the cloning, how do _you_ know?”

“There were some files on my ship. I had access to everything when there was no one left to stop me.” Lucy says it so simply, it almost sounds like killing every single person was a reasonable means to an end.

_Well, damn! Why didn’t I think of killing everyone in Rosewood when I needed access to some files? It’s so obvious!_

_Focus._

“I looked through them before I was captured,” Lucy continues. “I read the words, but I didn’t really understand it. I was too young. If they weren’t destroyed with the remains of the ship, Sue probably has them now. I don’t know.”

_Jackpot._

_Come in, Houston -- We have found our leverage._

Spencer’s lips curve into a smile. “So, if someone were to have access to these files, that would be of interest to you?”

And just like that, the light returns to Lucy Fabray’s eyes. She matches Spencer’s smile and looks her up and down like she doesn’t know where to put her mouth first.


	36. Espionage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It’s been awhile since Spencer requested an office visit. Boomer, bored with life as always, escorts Spencer back to Sue’s office, where the boss is midway through a rigorous jazzercise routine. A light blue sweatband across her forehead is the only change to her typical wardrobe, but she’s sweating like she just ran the New York Marathon.

Spencer wonders if Sue has any idea what that even is.

“Ah, Tastings, good. Do that.” She motions to the opposite corner without looking.

 _“That”_  is a giant mess of assorted papers in all colors, piled like a mountain about a foot high and three feet wide. Spencer's pretty sure there's peanut butter on a few of the pages.

“Um. Do what, exactly?”

“Do I look like someone who has time for your pointless, asinine questions, or do I look like someone four and a half hours into a loop of the most cardiovascularly titillating twenty minutes ever constructed by man, woman, or beast?” She emphasizes her point with jazz hands as she squats and twists.

Spencer turns away and sits down in front of the administrative catastrophe. It seems this is where paper goes to die in space. It’s the same kind of thing she's seen before: invoices for cafeteria food, water and fuel delivery confirmations, maintenance bills, communication logs, flight schedules, and the like. Nothing related to personnel, at least not directly.

But this time, there are some new papers that catch Spencer's eye immediately. These have names on them. She finds one of her cell transfer requests, along with intake forms for two new prisoners she hasn't met yet (Chloe O’Brian and Rosa Diaz). And there seem to be at least a dozen different pink capture forms for one Hermione Granger. With a pile this large to go through, Spencer feels sure there's got to be something relevant here. It's like the universe has given her an amazing birthday present a few months early. Or maybe late. She doesn't really know anymore.

Once she’s sorted them into piles (by color and type), it's time to decide how to proceed. Sue's not paying her any attention, but there's no way she would get away with sitting and reading through all these like library books, not with the warden looking on. No, this is too important. She'll file them like she's supposed to -- just, slowly. Reading as she goes. She doesn't want to risk losing her privileges, but she'll be damned if she just stuffs all this data in a drawer without devouring it first.

She calls out to Sue over the painfully annoying music, as innocently as she can. “Some of these look like they go in a prisoner file.”

Sue continues her extending arm movements, this time in the direction of a file cabinet with a key sitting in the lock.

Spencer grabs Hermione’s pile, now sorted chronologically by date, and walks it over. Sue’s still watching her every move, so Spencer’s careful to wade through the names until she finds **Granger, Hermione**.

It’s nestled right between **Fabray, Quinn** and **Hastings, Spencer**.

It's more than tempting to take a peek in her own file – the same one Aphasia stole when she arrived is nestled right back in its place here now. How Aphasia did it, she’ll never know. But even more peculiar is the fact that most of the file folders are the basic beige color, while hers is blue. And so is Lucy’s.

 _What’s_ that _all about?_

There must be eighty names here, and -- wait -- Graham’s is blue, too. As are **Mills, Regina** and **Katraine, Louanne** , whoever that is.

_But why?_

It seems random, but Spencer doesn’t know any of them well enough to make guesses about what they have in common, except for maybe Lucy. But even then – why would Lucy’s be blue like Spencer’s, but Quinn’s isn’t? There’s got to be something, right? There’s a box of empty manila folders in the cabinet at her feet, so it’s not like they ran out. Are they marked in some way? It could be a good thing, for all Spencer knows. She wants desperately to peek through her file, if only to learn whatever Aphasia must already know, but she still has this stack of transfers in her hand, and Sue knows exactly what she’s holding, so she’ll have to investigate that later.

It’s frustrating that as soon as she gets closer to answering one question, two more questions arise.

But that reminds her --

Flipping toward the back of the drawer, she finds **Schecter, Jennifer** and **Sun, Aeryn**. There’s no one in between. No Martha Slewgurt, or any Martha, for that matter.

Paulie was just fucking with her. Of course, she was. There is no woman named Martha. It’s probably just regular prisoners working kitchen duty, hashing slices of pseudo meat onto trays like an assembly line. There isn’t any big conspiracy to hide a Forbes 400 celebrity. Once again, Spencer’s the joke of prison. The gullible rich girl too stupid to know better. Spencer almost believed her, too.

Taking a deep breath, Spencer gets back to work. It’s taking all her will power not to swipe Jenny’s file. If she just had some _time_ in here to read all this paperwork, she’d know more than all those bitches out there. She’d be the one in charge. Who’d be laughing, then?

One thing at a time. Live to see another day of office work.

Hermione’s file is thick, one of the largest in the drawer, and Spencer immediately sees what must be thirty forms identical to the stack in her hand.

_Damn, girl!_

Vee’s words echo in her mind, but Spencer fights to stay focused on her own agenda. Yeah, of course she’s itching to know what Vee might tell her, but it could just be a pile of lies or things she already knows. Besides, this file’s huge; there’s no way Spencer could walk out with it even if she wanted to. If that psychopath wants it, she can come in herself and get it.

Though...with this many forms, it’s not like Sue would notice if a _few_ of them walked away.

Spencer adds the new pink forms to the back and closes the folder reluctantly. It’s taking all her willpower to not read through the Prisoner Information sheet at the front. This whole witch thing seems crazy (if it’s true), but Spencer can’t deny she’s seen Hermione vanish before her very eyes more than once. And what about Dark Willow’s fire throwing? According to Aphasia, there are different _kinds_ of witchcraft? It’s humbling, but Spencer’s seeing science she can’t understand. There may be answers here in this office, but there isn’t time. Sue’s still watching.

Spencer drops the file, smiles with lips closed, and nods as if to say, _Okay, that’s done._ Sue seems appeased and begins a new step, one that rotates her in a circle ninety degrees at a time with kicks and punches and some kind of victorious crowing noise as she flexes her ass.

Why nobody signed up for this jazzercise class is beyond Spencer. It's a wonder to behold.

She stands watching, almost hypnotized by the insanity, before realizing the drawer’s still open and Sue’s facing the wall. It’s only for a second, two at most, but it might be enough.

Reaching in, Spencer takes the last few papers right back out of Hermione’s file and then reaches for Lucy’s file. It’s right there, just before Quinn’s. It’s not nearly as thick as Hermione’s, but it’s certainly got something in it, hopefully enough to provide Lucy the answers she needs. Maybe, just maybe, that will lead to the answers Spencer needs. And, if she’s really lucky, it’ll also have whatever precious information Vee’s trying to hold over Spencer’s head.

So much is riding on this. Spencer has to pull it off.

As Sue bends and kicks, crowing triumphantly, Spencer goes for it. In one smooth motion, she pulls the file with her left hand and stuffs Hermione’s forms in the back. Unzipping her uniform, she turns away from Sue and shoves the file down her front, then bumps the drawer closed with her shoulder.

_Mission accomplished._

_I’m such a badass._

She walks back to the pile as casually as she can, and after two steps she realizes the file is just loose in there. The papers are spilling out into the legs of her jumpsuit quite loudly, giving Spencer a puffed out, deformed look and probably papercutting her all over.

_Shit._

Fortunately, Sue can’t hear it over the synthesizer and doesn’t seem to notice Spencer’s awkward movements as she tries to recover. Not that there’s any real way to play this off successfully. Once seated on the floor again, she turns her back to Sue and quickly reaches in to stuff the forms back into the folder, only then remembering she doesn’t have panties to tuck the file into.

_Double shit!_

She risks a side-glance, but fortunately Sue’s got her hands on the wall and seems to be doing some kind of old-people-twerking motion that Spencer really wishes she’d never, _ever_ seen. It gives her the window she needs, though. In a flash, she pulls her arm into her sleeves, slips out of the bra straps, and slides the still-fastened elastic down to her stomach. She moves the folder underneath it, using the bra like a belt to pin it against her. Her arms are back through the sleeves before Sue turns around.

_This had better be worth it._

“Becky!” Sue calls out, still continuing her unfortunate twerking routine. When her assistant appears in the doorway (scowling at Spencer), Sue says, “Tell Robin I want a status report on the G before tomorrow morning.”

“Who’s Robin?” Becky asks.

“Robin! The bird girl! Or Raymond or Raisin, or whatever it is,” Sue handwaves. “The one who always smells like a drunk Russian who can’t hold a job.”

“Raven?” Spencer asks, then immediately regrets drawing attention to herself.

Sue ignores her and extends a finger, pointing sharply at Becky as her ass continues gyrating. “Tell her the pipe in my bathroom is leaking again, and if it’s not repaired by my morning bath-salt soak, I’m going to rip it out of the wall myself and strangle her with it.”

“Aye aye, Warden!” Becky salutes a little overenthusiastically and takes off running down the hall.

“Spirited, isn’t she?” Sue says. “You could learn a thing or two from her. Pick it up, Spanker.”

With a heavy sigh, Spencer reaches for a septic system invoice from _Uranus Cleaners_ and wonders how this became her life.

****************

It’s only when Boomer’s leading Spencer to the shower again that she realizes she has no way to hide this file strapped to her torso once she’s expected to strip down. Even if she bathed in her uniform, the file would be ruined.

“Actually,” she says, just around the corner from the bathroom, “Can I take a rain check? Shower check?”

Boomer stops and looks at her, expressionless. Her alibi is rapidly disintegrating.

“Lucy has some...rigorous activities planned for later, and I think I’ll need a shower after that.”

The guard doesn’t reply, just turns and heads back in the direction they came, tugging the chain on Spencer’s cuffs harder than she needs to.

The door to cell 1 slides shut with Spencer safely inside, but it’s clear they've interrupted something, and Spencer doesn’t know if it’s safe to move or speak yet.

Lucy’s standing in the middle of the cell behind Faith, who’s on her knees, facing away, jumpsuit half off, with small bruises scattered across her back and neck. Faith’s arms are pinned behind her by her own sleeves, tied in a knot, and Lucy’s pulling her head back by her hair.

Spencer stands and stares, wondering just what the hell might happen next if they don't realize she's there. Right on cue, her stomach gurgles loudly enough to announce her presence.

Lucy doesn’t drop her hold on Faith's hair as she looks up. “Do you have something for me?” It's like Spencer walked in while she was just washing dishes or weeding the garden. Lucy tightens her hold with a twist of her hand, and Faith lets out a soft whimper, squirming on the floor but clearly trying not to.

Spencer cautiously takes a few steps forward, much too scared to get closer than necessary, and unzips her uniform to gain access to the blue folder. It’s been scratchy as hell, and she’s all too glad to be rid of it. She opens it to start reading, but Lucy grabs it out of her hand with a polite, “Thank you.”

Several pink corners are sticking out of the top, and Spencer’s eyes flash with realization. “Wait, hang on.” Lucy raises an eyebrow. “Some of those are mine. The pink ones.” There’s an awkward pause as Lucy seems to decide if she believes Spencer or not. “I swear, they’re not about you.”

Releasing Faith's hair, Lucy uses her freed hand to tug the three pages out of the now mixed-up pile one at a time, handing them to Spencer without reading them. Her expression remains cool and in control as she walks over to her bunk to sit against the wall. Faith doesn't move a muscle.

_Ah, right. Silent Sundays, Motionless Mondays._

As Lucy opens the file, Spencer quickly stuff Hermione’s forms under her pillow to read later. She crosses back over to sit beside Lucy, who holds up a hand and says, “Wait.” Her eyes are wide, scouring the pages intently, and Spencer is dying to know what secrets she has delivered. She just stands, silently, arms crossed, as Lucy reads two pages, three, four. But then she’s flipping through faster, emotion rising in her face, and there’s clearly something wrong.

It seems Faith can sense it, too, because she turns her body and starts to stand. Lucy’s head snaps up, fire in her eyes, as she shouts back, “DID I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO MOVE?”

Lucy’s voice is shaky and unsteady, laced with whatever emotions that file just brought up. It echoes through the cell and down the corridor, ringing in Spencer’s ears, and there’s no way in hell _she’s_ moving from this spot now, despite probably having permission. She’s not used to hearing Lucy so scared. Something about it sets Spencer on edge. So many vicious animals only lash out when frightened and backed into a corner, and the walls sure do seem to be coming in faster these days.

Lucy finally reaches the last page, then goes back through some in the middle and trails a finger down what appears to be a list until she reaches the bottom.

“Fifty-six,” she says quietly, staring at the faded gray paper. “Fifty-six.”

Spencer is just as shocked. “Clones?” she dares to ask, praying Lucy won’t strike her dead on the spot. (“Clones” would be a terrible last word.)

Lucy doesn’t respond, just hands Spencer the paper and says, “Where are these places?”

The heading says **PRODUCT DISTRIBUTION SITES** and has a numbered list of fifty-five cities all over the world. There doesn’t seem to be any specific order to them; they’re not alphabetical, or even grouped by continent. Some are major capital cities, others are towns she’s never heard of. At first glance, it seems fewer than a dozen are within the United States. Including one in Ohio.

“All over,” Spencer says. “They sent them everywhere.”

“Can we find them?”

Spencer takes a deep breath. Lucy's asking a tall order, and not just because they're currently incarcerated. In space.

“Maybe some, but there’s no way you’d ever track down all of them. Even if you knew where to start looking, people move. How would you know which one to go after first? How long would you look before you gave up? You could spend your whole life searching for one certain girl and never find her, and then you’ve missed your chance to meet all the others.”

The look on Lucy’s face, a mix of hope and sadness and broken promise, means Spencer has to state the obvious.

“We’re in prison. This list,” she holds up the paper, “is useless to you.”

Lucy’s expression hardens. It’s the same look Quinn had before she walked out on Spencer in the bathroom.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer adds, as if she’s saying it to both of them.

Lucy holds her hand out for the paper, then place it back in the middle of the file neatly. She lies back on her bed and flips to the beginning and starts reading through everything again, as if the contents are precious and important, and as if Spencer hadn’t just shattered her biggest dream into a thousand pieces.


	37. Shit Gets Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Things are tense in the cell for the next week. Lucy keeps the file under her mattress, guarding it protectively, and Spencer still doesn’t know why Lucy won’t let her see it. She’d been so forthcoming before, discussing her past and what happened with Quinn, but now she’s closed off and become a mystery again.

Maybe she's holding the bad news against Spencer, shooting the messenger and all that. It's hard getting the silent treatment, and it reminds her far too much of how Mack used to pretend she didn't deserve to exist.

_Just as long as she doesn't chainsaw the messenger in half._

Faith isn’t much help, either. Lucy left her there on her knees that day for seven hours, not permitted to speak or move. Maybe she did it on purpose, or maybe she just so engrossed in the file that she simply forgot about her previous engagement. Either way, Faith wasn't thrilled about having to piss herself there on the floor, all of five feet from the toilet, and seems to be blaming Spencer for it. Yeah, she could've gotten up and used it if she really wanted to. But Faith clearly doesn't want to take a step out of line and upset the boss lady. Not even when her bladder's bursting, so definitely not for Spencer.

How long is this going to go on? Once again, Spencer finds herself without allies and trapped. She’s running out of time. They’ve got two days at most before the next Shark Week, but that dam could break at any moment. She hates not being able to do anything to stop the next disappearance. She hates not knowing who might be next. She hates not knowing where Beth/Charlotte is or what she’s really up to. She hates not knowing for sure if it _was_ Santana all along _(and if so, how?)_ There are just too many questions up in the air to know which direction to head. Spencer doesn’t like being reactive -- she’s proactive. But she might just have to wait until the end of Shark Week to see if things are different now that her girl-chomping cellmate is gone.

She was supposed to feel safer here, keeping her enemies closer and all that, but Spencer feels just as lost as ever.

She dreams that night of being cast out to sea, alone and starving, thrown to and fro in the waves of a storm. As the boat rocks, she hears the impending sound of a shark coming right for her, cutting through the night to rip her in two. There’s a loud voice booming in the distance, but she can’t quite make it out; the storm is too rough. Spencer’s body is tossed about, drowning in rain, and the shark must have bitten her, because now she feels the warmth of blood on her leg. Suddenly, she’s flung out of her boat hard and slammed into the rocky shore. Her head aches, swimming with concussion and noise, as she’s crushed on the rocks again and again and again.

The pain is so sharp now, it jolts her awake, and Spencer tries to regain a grip on reality, but it’s hard. Her vision is blurry, and the pounding in her head feels even more real now that she’s conscious. It takes a moment, but she realizes that she _is_ in fact hitting her head. She’s floating two feet above her bed, face down, bumping into the ceiling.

_Wait, but that’s...but…_

She’s not thinking clearly, like she’s drunk on cold medicine and knows she’s out of it but can’t keep herself awake. Spencer turns herself over and tries to push back down to her bed, and that’s when she sees the horror taking place in her cell.

Faith is hovering in the middle of the room a few feet off the ground. Or at least... _parts_ of her are. Spencer can see her head, face up toward the ceiling, eyes still closed. But beyond her shoulders, it’s like she’s just not there entirely? Jagged lines, like someone took a Photoshop eraser tool to her and just went crazy, but left her feet in tact at the end.

“Faith!” she cries, but it’s barely more than a whisper, and Spencer doesn’t even know if she actually said anything at all. Even though she knows this must be a dream, it still feels very stupid calling out to what appear to be severed body parts. But her feet are staying the same distance from her body, so at least they’re not just chopped off. She blinks a few times, struggling to adjust to the darkness of the room and see what the fuck is going on. The corridor is dimmed at night, but not completely. If Spencer can focus on the light, maybe she’ll wake up from this horrible nightmare.

She squints and fights to keep her eyes open, fights to hold on to something real and solid, like the cell bars. Good old cell bars. Which…

The door is...wide open. And Faith’s about to sail right out of it. Or, the remaining parts of her are.

If this is her escape plan, she probably wasn’t planning to be dead first.

_No...no...it’s…_

Spencer reaches out for Faith, short by several feet and too high, and pushes off her bed to get there. She grabs a handful of Faith’s free-floating hair and holds on.

_YOU CAN’T TAKE MY FRIEND’S HEAD._

She pulls the girl back up, but she’s met with some resistance and can’t see why. Everything is wrong and nothing makes sense and her mind’s telling her she’s still in the ocean, _go back to sleep_. But Spencer isn’t giving up yet. She yanks on Faith again, and that’s when she sees it.

Spiders.

_Plural._

What must be _dozens_ of them. All gathered at the cell door, blocking her exit.

Spencer screams, or tries to, and jerks hard on Faith again, but the fear is making her physical and mental state even worse. Her strength is severely inhibited, and her best yank comes out as more of a slow tug. It’s enough, though, and whatever seemed to be holding Faith back pulls free, sending her floating fast in the opposite direction. Spencer grabs hard onto the bed frame at the last second and braces for the pendulous return. It feels better having something to hold on to, so she clings to her bed like a fortress. And she’s not about to let those fuckers take another girl, not if she has anything to say about it.

Her moment of bravery lasts a whole two seconds.

The swarm of spiders scatters all over the cell floor, like flooding water coming in. Several of them head right for the wall and Spencer’s bunk, fast and determined.

They’re coming for her.

Killer spiders in outer space. They want her dead.

Spencer screams louder, and she thinks she can almost hear it this time.

In a literal leap of faith, she jumps on top of Faith’s weirdly sliced up body (that she can somehow _see the floor through)_ , and they float down to the ground _(NO NO SPIDERS NO NO)_ , pushing back up to Faith's opposite top bunk, rotating upside down and spinning as they go. Spencer’s going to be sick.

“LUCY!” Spencer tries to shout as her cellmate blips in and out of her vision. But she’s still sleeping peacefully somehow, completely oblivious to the hell that’s broken out in her home.

Banging her leg on the edge, Spencer lets go of Faith to stop her momentum before she bashes her head on the metal frame, too. Faith tumbles out into the back of the cell to hover over the toilet, bouncing harmlessly between the walls. She’s up high and out of reach, and Spencer figures she’ll be safe enough there for now. The spiders don’t seem to be able to fly. At least, not yet.

This is, hands down, the worst nightmare she’s _ever_ had, and oh god, _the spiders are coming._

Pushing against the wall, she flies back over to her bunk to get away, then watches as they stop and turn to go back the other way. They’re most decidedly out for _her_ now. And Spencer can see now that these are certainly different from Beth. They’re larger and black with neon blue designs on their backs. It’s nothing she’s ever seen before. Spencer only has a few seconds to consider her options. She could keep going back and forth until they get bored, or she succumbs to motion sickness, or they climb up the wall. She could go out into the hall and let the guards kill her, while the spiders eat both Faith _and_ Lucy. Or she can try to end this here and now, once and for all.

A few creep up the wall behind her, while others scurry up the metal frame and across the mattress. Spencer watches in shock as they gain on her, then steels herself and lets the terrified tears flow, erupting in a screaming ball of panicked rage. She holds one side of the bed for leverage and unleashes havoc on the hellspawn, kicking her feet against the wall and slamming her free fist against the mattress, stomping as many as she can, barely able to see but not slowing down.

Again and again she attacks, never breaking her battle cry, and she doesn’t stop until her body finally gives out.

Spencer pants, still hovering, and searches the scene rapidly for any other signs of movement. Any survivors have fled through the still-open door, and Spencer prays they know better than to come back. She looks around frantically, adrenaline pumping through her veins, but the coast does seem to be clear.

Suddenly, something brushes against her cheek, and Spencer bats at her face with both hands over and over, releasing another frustrated scream. The small corpse of a spider gracefully soars through the air as she makes contact, and that's when Spencer realizes all the ones she killed are still here, floating around the room.

This is seriously the worst day.

Using her pillow, she bats them toward the open door, determined to get every last one of these fuckers out. If she can get enough force, they'll carry out and down the hall, where they'll hopefully stay. Someone else will find them, surely, even just one, and her story will be corroborated. They aren't very big, and they don't look nearly as scary on an individual basis, but the very fact that they do indeed exist is enough to gain traction with the authorities.

_Right? It has to be._

It takes several minutes, made harder by the fact that she's floating, herself, but she manages to bat nine dead, awful spiders out into the corridor. Spencer considers keeping one, putting it under her mattress for safe keeping just in case she needs proof, but there's just no way she's letting any of these stay here tonight, alive or dead. What if they regenerate? What if they're immortal vampire spiders? Or zombie spiders? Maybe they're not even dead. God only knows what she's really dealing with. She could be dead the moment she closes her eyes if she lets one near her again.

In the weak light, Spencer does her best to see that no more creepy crawlies are hiding in nooks and crannies around the bunkbeds. When the air seems clear, she double-checks her pillow to make sure none are still latched on and brushes off her uniform one last time.

All gone.

Catching her breath, Spencer looks back and, sure enough, Faith’s still safe and sound. And still just a head and feet with slices missing in between.

Spencer pushes off, mindful of hitting her head on the ceiling, and manages to bring Faith back to her bunk. Now that she has a moment to investigate, she checks for vital signs, and sure enough, there is a pulse. Spencer keeps poking and can feel that Faith’s whole body is there, even though she can’t see it. There’s some kind of tying force, like a string wrapped around her, and Spencer is able to dig her fingers underneath it, but -- _whoa_ \-- when she does, she can’t see her fingers anymore. Quickly retracting her hand to be sure she’s intact, Spencer tries again, and the same thing happens.

This is some seriously fucked-up shit.

Whether she’s still asleep or not, Bullshit Nightmare Time needs to be over now.

Spencer tugs at the binding force, and sure enough, it starts to give. She still can’t see it, but she does feel it, and she manages to pull the bulk of it down Faith’s body until it falls loose just past her knees. It’s certainly trippy watching Faith’s body _appear_ as it goes, but whatever Spencer’s doing is working. When Faith seems free and clear and all in one piece, Spencer takes a quiet moment to look over her rescue. She’s knocked out cold but still alive, and Spencer knows she’s just saved Faith’s life. As terrible as this has been, that part is pretty cool. Spencer did it. She broke the cycle of death. And aside from the terror and nausea, this zero-gravity flying thing is pretty cool, too.

Just then, Faith gently rotates into a gleam of light that just barely reveals a mark on her neck Spencer hadn’t seen before. One that isn’t any of Lucy’s doing. It’s small, like a puncture wound.

_Oh god._

Spencer’s hands move to her own neck, and sure enough, there’s a similar puncture wound; she can feel it.

_The fucking spiders bit and drugged us. Fantastic. But at least they won’t ever be able to do it again._

Pushing Faith gently through the air, Spencer gets her to her bunk area, though it's hard to know she'll stay in safe dropping range when the gravity eventually resets. It has to be enough for now. It’s certainly a hell of a lot better than fifteen minutes ago.

 _All this time_... _so many spiders_.

Her head is pounding, the blunt force impact and terror and fatigue finally catching up to her. Her body is aching for sleep and everything is terrible, but she’s still far too scared to close her eyes. Part of her thinks she should go after them, see where those fuckers are, where they were trying to take her friend. The door is wide open. The guards are still nowhere in sight. _(Seriously, WHERE have they been?_ )

Nothing is stopping Spencer but herself.

With a hesitant push, she floats over to the door. It’s strange, seeing it sitting there wide open, nobody on the other side making sure they don’t escape. But at the moment, it feels a lot safer in here than out there. Now she knows just what kind of horrors are in this place after all.

She floats down carefully and holds on to the bars for leverage, sliding the door closed as quietly as she can until she hears the _click_ of the automatic lock. With another push, she gets back up to her bed and settles in to watch the dimly lit floor until morning.

After all, prison bars can only keep out so much.


	38. A Sticky Situation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer wakes up face-down and backwards on her bed. Her head instantly starts throbbing again, though she can tell she’s much more coherent now. It all comes flooding back -- Faith, the spiders, the venom -- and she sits up to survey the scene. Faith is sleeping soundly in her bed, and, beneath her, Lucy rustles the sheets as she turns over.

For a moment, Spencer wonders if she dreamed the entire thing, that there's really only one spider and they're safely locked in. It was so vivid and would call into question so much else, but she doesn't want that version of reality. Her hand absently ghosts the side of her neck, and sure enough, the bite mark is still there.

She takes a deep breath and pushes onward.

Her muscles ache with the remnants of the venom swimming in her veins, making everything ache and feel fuzzy even these hours later. Much to her body's protest, she carefully climbs down to make for the toilet. Two steps forward, as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes, Spencer walks right into something and immediately jumps back.

A spider web.

The largest, most terrifying web she’s ever seen.

It sprawls across the entire back portion of the cell, floor to ceiling, side to side, like a whole new wall. A gigantic mess of lines and angles with no order to it whatsoever, made out of that yellow thread. It's just like the **_I KILD JENE SHEKTR_**  web she saw weeks ago, only larger and scarier, and she knows now that it's certainly the work of several spiders. There’s no way just one could do this.

Amidst the chaos, however, is more scrawled writing. Nothing as clear and neat as Beth’s work, but the message is unmistakable.

**_MY SEESTRS_ **

“OH MY GOD,” Spencer screams loudly, and running over to wake up Lucy and Faith. They’re groggy and moan at the interruption of their sleep, but Spencer doesn't care and just shakes their shoulders harder. “Wake up! WAKE UP, right _fucking now!”_

Faith lashes a hand out at Spencer with a grunt. “Calm your tits. Jesus.” Faith sits up slowly as her eyes start to focus on the silken forest now occupying their bathroom area. “Whoa.” She pauses, blinking at the light. “Redecorating?”

“THEY DID THIS,” Spencer screams, too tired and scared to control herself. This web most certainly isn't Mack's doing. “They came back and... _fuck_!” She’s pacing back and forth with her hands in her hair, watching the floor with every step she takes. After everything that happened, Spencer was stupid enough to fall back asleep. She fucked up. And they crawled right back in and did this just to fuck with them, which, god knows how long it took, how long they were in here while she was--

_Oh my god._

That day she saw the yellow web. These sick fucks came in as she was masturbating. They had to. She wasn’t asleep for _that_ long after. Right? The whole thing happened in less than an hour, because it was class time. Were they just waiting at the damn door for her to climax so they could creep in undetected? How did nobody see them?

 _What the_ fuck _is going on here?_

Lucy’s wide awake at the sight of the web, off the bed and looking under the bunk and all around the cell. “Beth? Beth, honey? Are you here?!” She checks the web for any signs of her beloved, long lost pet, but there’s no one.

“This isn't Beth,” Spencer says definitively, glancing over as she moves past.

But now Lucy's starting to get that fire in her eyes that scares Spencer so much. “How would _you_ know?”

_Fuck. Well, that’s out of the bag._

Her pace slows for a moment as she realizes her mistake. Lucy must have thought the bathroom incident was the first time Spencer had encountered Beth, and she had never given indication otherwise. And Spencer's remembering all too late that her cellmate has a raging jealous streak. “She lived in my cell when I got here. She wrote me messages for a while. Like she did with Jenny.”

Okay, now Lucy's pissed. She stands up moves to intercept Spencer in her path. “REALLY.”

“It’s not a big deal! We were just friends or something. Can we deal with the current situation, please?”

Lucy’s having none of that. “Why didn’t you say so when we were talking about her the other night?”

“Gee, I don’t know, Lucy. Why did _you_ not say there are ACTUALLY LOTS OF SPIDERS ON THIS SHIP?”

That stops her in her tracks.

Lucy blinks. “I didn’t know there were. I honestly don’t know how they could be here. If they’re the same ones I had as a child, I mean. When I was brought here, only Beth came with me. I hid her in my hair; they didn’t see her.” Spencer shivers involuntarily at the thought. “She’s the only one I ever cared about. She’s the only one who would read with me and learned how to write. But I hated that I couldn’t bring the others, too. I know how it feels to be separated from all your sisters and I didn’t want to do that to her.” Lucy’s expression suddenly brightens as she says, “But now it sounds like they found their own way here! Isn’t that wonderful? And now they’re trying to reunite with Beth!”

Spencer can’t believe what she’s hearing. Sure, she’s trying to be sympathetic, knowing how Lucy wants to reunite with her own clone sisters or whatever, but still. Spencer’s going to rip Lucy’s face off.

“How many sisters?”

“I don’t remember, honestly. Maybe ten?”

... _But, wait, I saw more than that...I know I did..._

Faith steps in, pointing to the web, “So, uh, back to this.”

Spencer’s eyes flash with realization. “I think they’re mad because I killed some of them.”

“You _WHAT?!”_  Lucy says, stepping closer, eyes suddenly filled with rage.

“THEY WERE TRYING TO KIDNAP HER,” Spencer shouts, pointing to Faith.

“Wait, _WHAT?!”_   Faith slaps the pointing hand aside, clearly just as angry.

“My babies would never hurt anyone!” Lucy says indignantly.

 _“BZZ!_ WRONG ANSWER,” Spencer yells.

“YOU PROMISED you wouldn’t hurt them!”

“I LIED.”

Lucy’s eyes blaze wide and she winds her arm back like she’s about to strike.

“LANNISTER! LANNISTER!” Spencer shouts, cowering and holding her hands out to block the slap.

Faith steps in. “Okay, WHAT THE FUCK?” She might just punch them both.

Everything is escalating fast, and Spencer peeks out from behind her hands to see Lucy’s holding steady. She takes a breath and tries to bring everything down a notch. “Last night, a bunch of spiders came in here and somehow started hauling you right out the goddamn door.”

Faith looks around, considers what Spencer’s just said, and laughs. _“Really.”_

“IT’S TRUE,” Spencer says, throwing her arms out. “I woke up in the middle of it and stopped them, which, YOU’RE WELCOME, so then they came after ME and I killed a bunch of them before the rest got away. They’ve been taking prisoners for months, I just didn’t know how, and I thought it was only Beth.”

Lucy sounds completely betrayed. “You thought _Beth_ was killing people?”

“It’s not like I was very far off!” Spencer bites back sarcastically.

“Okay,” Faith says. “Suppose I believe there _are_ killer spiders in outer space.” She waves a hand at the web like it’s Exhibit A. “You really think a bunch of bugs are gonna drag my badass self out of here. Please explain, professor.” She crosses her arms smugly and leans against the bed frame.

“I don’t know, okay? I woke up, and you were floating in mid-air --”

The word “floating” catches Lucy’s attention. She peeks down inside her jumpsuit and glances at her sheets. “Wait, it’s Shark Week? I didn’t hear the Code Red.”

Spencer pauses. “I think _I_ did,” she says, “but it was a part of my dream, so I didn’t realize.” And in that moment, she squirms uncomfortably, realizing her body's cycle has caught up to everyone else's. And she still isn't wearing panties.

Even better, with one last tampon stashed in her pillowcase, she still can't get to the toilet with the web in the way.

 _One problem at a time_.

Crossing her legs, Spencer looks at the web and says, “They sure don’t waste any time. The guards haven't even brought the stuff yet.”

Faith looks thoroughly disgusted. “So, what, they wanna ride _us_ riding the wave?”

“I don't think so. Or at least I hope not.” Spencer shifts again. “I think when the gravity goes out during Shark Week, they just seize the opportunity. Use it as a distraction or something.” Her mind pours over the information as she paces in the cell, and suddenly her eyes go wide. “What if they _make_ the gravity go out. They chew through the wiring or something, I don’t know.”

“They don’t eat wires,” Lucy says.

“Right, because they eat people, _we know_.” Then, a flashing image in her mind. “Of _course_ they need the gravity to be out,” Spencer continues, talking it through. “If their prey is weightless and floating, it’s much easier to move.”

“But they'd be floating too, right?” Faith asks. “How the hell does that work?”

“No, their legs are built for hanging on to things. They weren't floating until I --” but Spencer stops herself before reminding Lucy of the carnage. “They weren't floating.”

“Well, lucky me, then,” Faith says, climbing back up to her bunk. “Next, you can explain how they'd get me through the bars.” She's still not buying any of this.

Spencer thought it was obvious. “The door was open.”

“The door was open.” Faith leans forward to really look Spencer in the eye, like she wants her to hear how stupid it sounds. “The locked, heavy, metal prison cell door. Was open.”

“Yeah.” Spencer keeps pacing. “I guess they can pick locks, too.”

Faith laughs again, “Wow, Criminals of the Year. Who knew!”

Lucy beams. “Spiders are very smart!”

“So, let me get this straight,” Faith say. “The door was open, but you’re still here?” She crosses her arms and leans back against the bedframe. “Me? I’d be halfway to the moon by now with a chance like that.”

“I hear it’s a bit cold outside, and I can’t seem to find my coat,” Spencer says patronizingly, crossing her arms.

“I’d figure it out,” Faith says. “Either you blew you only chance at busting out, or you’re a walking, talking, hundred-pound bag of bullshit.”

“You really think I made THAT up?!” Spencer’s pointing back to the web. “Because lemme tell you, I have better things to do with my time. AND I can spell. Why does no one ever believe I can spell?”

“Okay, Final Jeopardy,” Faith retorts, staring Spencer down. “If I became the latest float in the prison pride parade, why don’t I remember a goddamn thing about it?”

“Because they _knocked us out_. Look -- I've got bite marks,” Spencer reaches for her neck, “and I bet you do, too.”

Faith and Lucy both feel around, and their expressions change the moment they locate the small puncture wounds.

“They roofied us?” Faith sounds more curious than anything, but the look on Lucy's face is pure disappointment.

Spencer realizes she’s felt like this before. “Shit -- When Paulie disappeared, I was really out of it the next morning, but I figured it was food poisoning or something. But it makes sense now – they wanted us to sleep through it while they took someone. The bitches drugged us. _Fuck_.”

“I can't believe they would do that,” Lucy says, shaking her head, but it's clear from the hand on her neck that she means the bite, not trying to take Faith. “I took such good care of them.”

Spencer starts thinking about a young Lucy and her ten pet spiders, then imagining those same spiders coming to attack Spencer in the night.

_Wait a minute..._

“Your spiders,” Spencer starts, “what do they look like?”

“Just like Beth. They're gray, about this big,” Lucy holds up a circle about the size of a dime with her index finger and thumb. “Such beautiful creatures.”

“But that's not what I saw!” Spencer says, eyes wider now. “They were huge” -- she holds up a circle about the size of a half-dollar -- “and black with blue marks on their backs. They didn't look like Beth at all.”

Lucy's brow furrows. “I never had any spiders like that.”

No, this is a whole new batch, and there must be more of them still out there. Somebody made the new web this morning. And Spencer doesn't like that Lucy doesn't know a damn thing about them.

“Well,” she says, “they came from somewhere. We'll figure it out.”

Lucy shrugs after a minute and adds lightly, “Mine are much better writers.”

_The writing..._

“You guys,” Spencer says, “these spiders killed Jenny Schecter and probably the other missing prisoners, and now they want to kill us, so we really --”

“Jenny was airlocked,” says Faith.

Spencer's going to lose her shit if she hears that line one more time. “Yes, that's clearly what everyone wants us to believe,” she says as patiently as she can. “But I saw a yellow web just like this back in 10 that said _I killed Jenny Schecter_. I just...I thought it was Beth.”

“Of course you did,” Lucy says bitterly.

Spencer wants to quip back but resists. They're all scared and hurting right now. “I _tried_ to get help, but nobody believed me. At least this time you don't think I'm some raging lunatic like they did.”

The three girls sit quietly for a minute as the conversation comes to an awkward lull. No one seems to want to say anything about Quinn's role in the lingering comment, and that's probably for the best. Spencer can't take arguing about Quinn right now, not when she's so completely spent. Last night was horrible, and she's more aware of her body's signals in these moments in between. Twitchy and aching and muddy, Spencer could go for a few more hours of sleep now that someone else is awake to keep an eye on things. But she can’t help but notice that Lucy looks more emotional than usual. “You okay?”

Lucy purses her lips and meets Spencer’s eyes. “I thought maybe I was going to see them again -- Beth’s sisters. It’s just been so long.” She pauses for a moment, looking at the web wistfully before continuing. “At least these new spiders, whoever they are, they seem to have adopted Beth as one of their own. That makes me happy. She needs a family who loves her.”

 _Yes,_ Spencer thinks, _“happy” and “love” are exactly the words that come to mind in this situation. You’re absolutely right._

“So, what now?” Faith asks. She's still rubbing her neck and sounding awfully shaken up.

“We deal with this, I guess,” Spencer says, turning back to the web. It looks just as creepy as it did the first twelve times she looked at it. Just to cover her bases, lest she get a slap across the face, she says, “I’m gonna tear it down.” Then, as if she needs to, she adds, “I’m sorry, but I _really_ have to pee.”

“It's yellow…” Lucy says, and Spencer frowns, wondering why the hell Lucy is talking about her bodily functions. But, no, Lucy is looking at the spider’s handiwork thoughtfully, referring to the web itself. “How about that.”

The others stare at her, waiting. “And?” Spencer prompts impatiently.

“We used to have yellow towels, before you arrived,” Lucy offers, piecing things together as she talks. “I wondered where they all went.” She smiles. “Clever girls.”

“Why would they need those?” Faith asks. “Don't they make their own...web...string or whatever?”

“Maybe they don't,” says Spencer ominously. “Beth does.” She looks to Lucy for confirmation and gets it. “But these new spiders, I guess not.”

Spencer keeps the whole “invisible, erasing thread” part of her evening to herself. She’s walking on thin ice as it is with her cellmates and can’t risk sounding any crazier. Not until she has a theory about what that was. Maybe the spiders made it, but maybe not. They seem pretty resourceful, but Spencer can’t think what could’ve produced string like that in the first place. On the bright side, it seems Faith doesn’t know or care enough about physics to ask how the spiders were propelling her forward. One less thing Spencer has to try to explain right now.

“What the hell is the point of being a spider if you can't make a web,” Faith mutters, crawling back into bed. “You know, nevermind. I don’t care!” She pulls the sheet over her head definitively.

Spencer can't blame her. She'd like very much, herself, to hit the reset button and erase the last twenty-four hours. It wouldn't be the first time she'd...

_Time..._

“Wait a minute,” Spencer says to Lucy. “Okay, say the spiders came in to kill her, probably to eat her, right?” Before Lucy can respond, she points and cuts her off, _“You_ said Beth eats dead people, so I think we can extend that premise to these new assholes.”

Lucy opens her mouth but then closes it again. “Continue,” she says quietly.

“Well, they failed! They didn't get her!” Spencer says, pointing back to Faith. “If that means they don’t have a food source, then maybe they’ll starve before next month. Maybe we just broke the cycle!” She sounds elated, but Lucy couldn't look more horrified.

“Poor things!” she gasps.

Spencer lets herself get excited at the possibility, then thinks through the ramifications of her theory and quickly realizes it won’t hold water. “Shit, hang on. You said just the other day that they can go a long time without food.”

Lucy nods, “Yes.”

“How long?”

Lucy looks offended at the question. “I never starved them long enough to find out.”

“But probably longer than a month, right?”

“Probably,” Lucy concedes.

_Well, shit. What now?_

Taking another steadying breath, Spencer closes her eyes for a moment and quickly opens them again as she realizes they’ve caught a break. “On the plus side, the web says ‘sisters,’ which implies they’re all female.”

“They are,” says Lucy.

“You look under their skirts?” Faith sneers, still face down on her pillow.

“They were made that way,” Lucy says, then adds dismissively, “Males are inferior.”

 _“Made?”_  Spencer glares, turning to face Lucy head on.

“Of course!” Lucy chastises. “Spencer. You really don’t think spiders just _live_ in space, do you?”

Her jaw tightens.

“I read about them in a book about Earth when I was a child,” Lucy says, “and they looked like such graceful creatures. Artists, like me. I was lonely, so my parents made some to keep me company. It was my best birthday.”

Spencer wonders what kind of people would choose _spiders_ as pet option numero uno.

_Could they not get her a book on kittens?_

“This is good news, though,” Spencer says, “assuming all these new spiders are all girls, too. Females can’t breed on their own. So, at least they’re not making babies.”

“I dunno,” says Faith. “Around here? Wouldn’t be surprised.”

Spencer pauses to consider the remote possibility of that, scientifically. They’re not in Jurassic Park, for crying out loud. She mentally dismisses it and continues. “No, someone did this, I just don’t know who. Or how. This is a _prison_. I don't think secret, killer animal projects are high on the list of priorities when we barely have enough to eat.” Looking at Lucy pointedly, she adds, “And I’m not sure many space labs are engineering spiders in the first place.”

“I said I didn’t bring them with me.”

“And you’re sure you haven’t seen any other gray spiders in here. Only Beth,” Spencer asks.

“Yes,” Lucy says with noticeable sadness.

“Well, I can’t think of anything else that makes sense,” Spencer says, but it doesn't add up. _Also…_ “Speaking of things that don’t make sense, how old is Beth, anyway? She should’ve been dead years ago...”

Lucy is appalled and takes a step forward to get right in Spencer’s face. “How _dare_ you! She is my FAMILY.”

“A family of, what, vampires?” Spencer fires back. “Most spiders don’t live more than a year.”

“But Beth’s at least fifteen by now,” Lucy says.

Spencer’s eyes go wide. “Your spider. Is fifteen years old.” It would be a question, but the words don’t make sense.

“I honestly don’t know why that surprises you. She’s still relatively young.”

“On what planet --” Spencer starts, then stops herself and runs her fingers through her hair in frustration.

Lucy walks to her bed and pulls the file folder out from under her mattress. She starts shuffling through until she finds a particular page. “This says spiders live thirty to forty-five years,” she says pleasantly.

_WHAT._

“Whoa!” Faith says, turning over with a scowl. She's clearly not sleeping any time soon. “That’s not right, is it?” she says to Spencer. “Please tell me that’s not right.”

“Think about how smart they can get in that much time!” Lucy adds excitedly. “Beth and I only had a year or so to read and write together before we came here, and she learned so much! Look at how her adopted sisters have learned how to write, too!” Lucy gestures proudly to the psychotic, eight-foot message displayed before them like it’s an A+ test on the refrigerator door.

“Yeah,” Faith says. “I wonder how long it takes to learn how to pick locks and kidnap prisoners in zero gravity without leaving any trace of the crime.”

“Except for this,” Spencer says, looking at the web one more time before yanking the first handful of thread down. It takes a minute or so to get all of it, especially since Lucy doesn't offer to help. Spencer takes the pile of tangled string and shoves it through the bars, tossing it off to the side as far as she can.

“At least now we know what we're up against,” Spencer says, and reaches into her pillowcase for that her last tampon before hurrying over to the toilet. “I think.” But the words hardly bring the peace she needs, not even close.

There are genetically modified, highly intelligent, carnivorous, mega-spiders killing people in space prison.

And they just declared war.


	39. Vengeance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer is a bit of a schizophrenic zombie for the rest of the day, lost in thoughts of spiders infesting the prison -- crawling in the walls, scurrying under the tables in the Mess Hall, watching her in the shower, walking over her as she sleeps…

She picks at her meals, constantly looking around her for any sign of Beth or the spider Black Ops team, and doesn’t really hear any of Lucy and Faith’s conversations. They’re all just sitting, bleeding ducks, locked in, waiting to be picked off. Spencer is the only one who has seen what’s going on. She’s the only one who’s survived a direct attack. At least, that she knows of. Is it possible someone else knows the truth? How could she find that out?

The only silver lining to all this is that now she has, a) another month until the next attack, and b) two people who now believe her completely. The knowledge that it’s not one spider who’s been killing people -- it’s been _dozens_ \-- isn’t in the win column, but it’s important information. As is confirmation that Lucy hasn’t been sending Beth out on hit missions. Spencer has certainly learned a lot in her time in cell 1, which is what she wanted, she just didn’t expect things were going to get this terrifying.

Had the spiders succeeded in taking Faith, Spencer would’ve been left all alone with Lucy. Who knows what would’ve happened then. Spencer shakes off the idea that Lucy was trying to manufacture that very situation somehow, if only because the thought of someone being that manipulative, that powerful, and that dangerous from behind prison bars scares the ever-loving shit out of Spencer. Almost as much as the thought of being left alone and locked up with her.

No, Spencer’s convinced the spiders are the real enemy here. And if she’s going to go up against them, she’s going to need help. _Real_ help.

Fortunately, she’s got time to find it. At least, she hopes.

****************

She was wrong.

That night, the gravity goes out again.

“What the hell!” Faith shouts, hovering in the dark.

“I don’t know!” Spencer calls, holding on to the bed frame. “It’s never gone out twice in the same week, right?”

“It’s unprecedented,” says Lucy. She’s still tucked tightly into her sheet and relatively calm. “But maybe Raven is too busy covering Starbuck’s body in my fingerpaints to do her job.”

“This is Raven’s fault?” Spencer asks. One of Lucy’s paintbrushes lazily floats by and bounces silently off her pillow.

“It’s her job to fix it.”

“You want this hot ass, you black widow bitches?” Faith shouts. “Bring i--” Spencer hears a thud of what must have been Faith’s head hitting the ceiling. “Mother _fuck_ er!”

“Shut up, Faith,” Spencer says louder than she means to. “Stop attracting attention.”

“Like they’re not coming for us anyway. Try, try again, right?”

Lucy offers, “Given the results of last night’s _massacre”_ \-- she adds extra weight to that last word, and Spencer rolls her eyes -- “I think they’ll try something else. They’re clever and resourceful creatures.”

“You’re not scared,” Faith says, wondering how that’s possible.

“Spiders would never hurt me! They love me.”

“Well, lucky you,” says Spencer. The cell door’s still closed and the coast is clear, but she’s not taking her eyes off the dimly lit floor.

They hang there for an hour or so, arguing for a while about whose fault it is, and then, without warning, the gravity kicks back on. Spencer and Faith both fall to their beds at awkward angles, banging their hands and feet on the metal frame as they land, while Lucy drops two inches to her mattress with a soft _poof_.

 _“What took you so long!”_ someone shouts in the distance, presumably at Raven.

“Everyone okay?” Spencer asks, nursing a hurt wrist.

“Of course.”

“Five by five,” Faith grunts, rubbing her arm.

Spencer takes one last look around and then tries to settle into a comfortable sleeping position. Not that she’ll be able to drift off peacefully any time soon. “I’ll do some recon in the morning and see if anyone’s gone missing.”

“You just set off Shark Week,” Faith retorts.

She’s right – it’s lockdown procedures. Spencer’s not going anywhere.

“Fuck,” Spencer says. “Alright, then I’ll ask the guards.”

Lucy smiles. “Yes, you and Boomer do seem like the best of friends.”

“I’ll figure something out!”

Spencer turns over in bed and huffs in frustration. She saved Faith last night, and now somebody else might be gone. Or maybe the spiders are just screwing with her, trying to throw her off her game. It’s certainly working.

Every little sound she hears in the corridor sets her nerves on edge, and Spencer can’t get any peace. The wheels in her mind won’t stop turning. The slightest twinge of an itch on her body jolts her back into full consciousness, kicking at nothing and riling herself up again. If anything, all the stress is wearing her down to nothing, and she eventually won’t have enough energy to stay awake or fight back even if she wants to.

Finally, after another hour, Spencer dreams of being hauled away by giant spiders, all of whom have Lucy’s face, and taken to Santana, who eats her alive, while Quinn watches on, stone-faced, and says nothing.

****************

The next morning, Spencer wakes and checks her bed immediately for creepy crawlies. There’s no sign of anything, and she sighs in relief, then screams wide-eyed, “JESUS CHRIST!”

The giant web is back. Only, this time, it’s between the beds and the door.

There’s no way out.

“Holy fuck -- _again_?” Faith yells, getting out of bed to look closer. She slaps her hand to her neck, but doesn’t seem to find a bite mark.

“Their writing is getting better!” Lucy claps and smiles. “Look!”

But it’s the same jumbled mess, like a crayon drawing from an insane asylum, web lines tangled so thick that the girls can barely see the bars behind them.

**_YOR SEESTR_ **

Spencer isn’t even focusing on the spelling mistakes, what with the blinding fear and all.

 _“Your_ sister?” Faith asks.

“My sister’s not--” Spencer says, confused. Then, it hits her.

She and Lucy look at each other.

 _Quinn_.

“GUARD!”

Spencer tears through the web, ripping the damning message to shreds and flinging the sticky, yellow string off of her. It falls away into a pile on the floor, looking far less intimidating than it had just minutes ago. And now Spencer’s banging on the cell bars as hard as she can. “GUARD!”

Buffy struts over, taking her sweet time, dragging a wooden stake across the bars. She halts when she sees the pile of yellow string and steps over it. “I know it’s your heavy flow day, but you don’t have to make all of us suffer for it.”

Spencer doesn’t have time for this bullshit. “Is Quinn in her cell?”

“Everyone is in their cell,” Buffy says, like she’s talking to a moron. “It’s Shark Week.”

“Cut the crap!” She bangs the door again right by Buffy’s face. “Just answer the question. Have you seen Quinn today?”

“I’ve seen a lot of smelly lesbians today, Spencer.” Buffy tilts her head. “Tell you what. How about I run go check and get right back to you?”

“Thank y--”

“Did you want me to grab you a six-pack and a large pizza while I'm out?” Buffy mocks. “Pepperoni? Hawaiian? Veggie? There’s a Domino’s just right around the--”

Spencer slams the bar once more, as if she were punching Buffy in her smug, blonde face, and says, “I knew it. None of you give a SHIT about us. You don’t care that we’re getting killed one by one in our sleep while you’re god knows where!”

“Have you been huffing Lucy’s paints again?” Buffy asks with that patronizing faux cheerfulness Spencer hates. “Do we need to have an intervention? Remember, when it comes to peer pressure, just say no.” Before Spencer can respond, Buffy looks down at the thread and asks, cheerfully, “Hey, was that a towel? I haven’t seen one of these in months!”

“Still enough of it left to strangle you with.”

“It’s really very cute that you think you could,” Buffy says, like it's the most precious thing she's heard all day. But then her demeanor changes, dropping all sense of pleasantries. “Go bleed.” And she turns to stroll away.

“Go DO YOUR JOB,” Spencer retorts. “Jesus! SHE COULD BE DEAD, DO YOU SERIOUSLY...” But it’s no use. Buffy’s gone. _“Fuck_ ,” she hisses, turning away and throwing herself onto Santana’s bed. _“Fucking bitch!”_ she screams into the pillow.

Faith gives a low whistle. “Can’t lie. I’d bang her like a screen door in a hurricane.”

“What are we going to do?” Spencer snaps. Faith needs to keep it in her pants and help her figure this out.

“Lucy’s little buddies could pick the lock,” she offers, and it only half sounds like a joke.

Spencer’s head is spinning. This is all her fault. Quinn’s gone, and it’s all her fault. She should’ve let them take Faith. Or she could’ve followed to see where they were taking her. The fucking door was open. Nothing was standing in her way. But no, she panicked. She just had to play the hero, had to save Faith, had to play exterminator, but was too scared to see it through, and now Quinn is probably dead. Because of her.

“We have to save her!” Spencer says, more to herself than anyone else.

“Yeah, I got that part,” says Faith. “Good luck getting out of here.”

Lucy, who’s been sitting quietly on her bunk this whole time, finally speaks up. “Spencer’s right.” They both turn to look at her. “We have to save her.”

“I thought you hated her,” Spencer says quietly.

Lucy stands so she can look Spencer in the eye. “She’s family. It’s complicated. We may never be close, but that doesn’t mean I want her dead. On the contrary, Quinn’s welfare is of great importance to me.” She pauses, then adds with a hint of fire in her eyes, “It’s generally not a good idea to take my sisters away from me.”

Faith raises her hands as if she were holding a chainsaw, mimics pulling the starter cord, and makes a slicing motion, with a silent _“Vroom vroom!”_  behind Lucy so Spencer understands her full meaning.

... _Oh shit, that’s right._

_Lucy killed all thirty-seven people on her ship._

In that moment, she realizes Lucy’s motive. The scientists sent away her true family, so she murdered her entire ship as revenge.

_Good god._

_On the other hand, I pick her for MY team!_

Spencer’s immediately pulled out of her train of thought by Faith yelling “SPIDER! SPIDER!” and pointing to her side of the room.

Spencer about falls off the bed.

“Beth!” Lucy cries.

_Beth?!_

Spencer leaps to the floor and scurries back, putting as much distance between herself and the monster as possible. Panting in fear, she tiptoes back toward Santana’s bed to get a closer look, and sure enough, a solitary gray spider is rapidly working on a small, new web at the foot of Lucy’s bed. _(Thank god.)_ It’s just like she used to do in cell 10, only Beth seems particularly rushed this time.

“You’re sure that’s the good one?” Faith’s still up on her bunk with her pillow poised at the ready to pounce at the first sign of foul play.

“Yeah, that’s her,” Spencer says. “What’s she writing?”

Beth is moving rapidly, but not one whole letter at a time, so they can’t quite make out the message yet. Faith climbs down, bringing her pillow with her, and the three girls gather around the frantic spider.

“Give her some space,” Spencer says when Faith gets too close on the back side.

After a few more cross lines, Lucy begins to sound it out. “Oal...Olive? No, Beth is a much better speller than that.”

“That’s a Q, look -- “ Spencer says, pointing.

“What the hell’s ‘q-a-l-w-c’?” Faith asks.

“No, that’s an E at the end.” Spencer keeps watching, mesmerized by the message gradually revealing itself. “Wait, ‘alive’! Q alive! Oh my god.” She collapses into a pile of relief for a moment as the emotions wash over her.

“She’s okay?” Lucy is grinning from ear to ear, clearly relieved by this news. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know!” Spencer says, turning back to the web, as if that answer would magically appear as well.

“Doesn’t matter,” Faith reminds them. “We still can’t get to her.”

“That’s not good enough,” Spencer says, but it doesn’t change anything. They’re just three girls in a prison cell.

Everything is still for a moment. Beth sits on the edge of the web, taking what appears to be a muchly needed break from her work. It seems crazy to Spencer -- the idea that spiders are communicating with them like this -- with this information they so desperately need, but it’s quickly becoming the norm. And at least this web’s a hell of a lot better than the last one.

Faith steps in close to the web again and speaks far too loudly just a few inches from Beth. “WHERE IS QUINN? TELL US WHERE QUINN IS.” Each word is slow and deliberate, as if that would make a difference.

“Oh my god,” Spencer says, putting her hands to her face and rubbing between her eyes. “She’s not deficient! She’s probably smarter than you!”

“Then why doesn’t she just tell us!” Faith retorts.

“Maybe she doesn’t know! Or maybe she just doesn’t like being talked to like a moron.”

“I guess you’d know,” Faith says smugly, walking back to climb on her bunk.

Spencer wonders if maybe she’d have better luck, given her history with Beth and actually thinks about trying to converse with an animal for a hot second. Continuing the string of perfectly typical and reasonable happenings in space. But then something clicks in her mind -- she’s not the only person who’s tried talking to a spider. “Hang on.” She pulls Jenny’s journal out from under her mattress and starts flipping through, looking again for notes about Beth and her messages. She’s read everything in there, cover to cover, but maybe there was more to it than she realized. Maybe she didn’t know what to look for before. “Maybe there’s something in here.”

“What’s that?” Lucy asks, sounding more than a little displeased that Spencer has a possession she doesn’t know about.

Flipping past the pages and pages of tirades about Lucy, Spencer suddenly regrets bringing this into the light of day. “My diary,” she plays off as innocently as she can.

“What are you, twelve?” Faith asks. She jumps down off her bed and crosses the room, yanking the journal out of Spencer’s hand before she can move it out of reach.

“Hey! Excuse me!”

“Holy _shit_ , Luce,” Faith says with wide eyes as she feasts on what must be a particularly juicy page near the middle. Walking over to the bottom bunk, Faith holds it out for her to read, making eye contact with Spencer as she says -- like it’s the best news she’s heard all day -- “this bitch wants you dead.”

The look on Lucy’s face slices Spencer in half. Or at least, it feels like it.

“No, no!” Spencer sputters with hands out, “It’s not mine. It’s Jenny Schecter’s, I swear. I just stole it from her.”

“You didn’t even know her,” Faith counters. “She was dead before you got here.”

“Her cellmates gave it to me. They thought it would help us figure out all this!” She points to Beth’s web.

“Bullshit,” Faith says.

“Look in the front! She talks about things that happened long before I got here. It’s not mine.”

Faith turns back to the inside cover, sizing up Spencer before examining the pages. If she believes her, she’s not saying so.

“And you didn’t think this was relevant for me to know,” Lucy asks, eyes still locked on her target.

“I’m sorry! I knew it would upset you!” It wasn’t a lie, exactly -- Spencer didn’t want to die. _Doesn’t_ want to die. But it’s not like she actually cared about protecting Lucy’s precious feelings. At least, not then.

“You weren’t wrong.”

Faith and Lucy sit in silence for a minute, scouring the pages as Spencer tries to predict just how they’re going to go about ending her life once the text runs out. Faith’s clearly getting more and more amused as she reads, but Lucy’s not finding any of this remotely funny. Pulling the book from Lucy’s hands, Faith stands and says, “Wait, wait --” then launches into a dramatic reading of the “Lucyfer” paragraph. The subject in question doesn’t seem to share in her joy.

“That is some seriously fucked up shit,” Faith says, laughing.

“I had no idea she felt this way,” says Lucy. It’s hard to tell whether she’s stinging more with embarrassment or betrayal. “We were friends for a long time. She was in my class.” The facts she knows don’t add up to what she’s read. “When nobody came to hers, I lent her my spider, because no one should be lonely up here.” Lucy is quiet for a moment before adding, “I thought she liked me.”

Spencer swallows. There’s major damage control to do here if she’s going to keep Lucy on the calm side and live to see dinnertime. “She’d be crazy not to,” she says sweetly.

“Well, it’s clear she’s mentally unstable,” Lucy states.

_Says the mass murderer._

“Did she ever come after you?” Spencer asks, remembering she wanted to talk to a member of the class about that final Monday Jenny was present. This will have to suffice for now. “In class, maybe? Or at lunch? Right before she left?”

Lucy frowns slightly and quietly reflects on her memories. She tenses a bit, some anger rising within her now. “Not that I’m aware of.”

Spencer remembers who’s side she’s supposed to be on and squeezes Lucy’s knee. “That’s good!” she exclaims. “Yeah, maybe she had some baseless, insane dislike of you,” Spencer says, as friendly as she can, “but she’s dead and you’re not. And Beth came back to you! You won.”

But it doesn’t feel like a victory, not right now. All three girls look over at Beth’s web, which remains unchanged.

Lucy closes the journal and hands it back to Spencer. “I don’t think this was helpful,” she says coolly.

_Yeah, no kidding._


	40. Oops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Twenty minutes later, they’re still sitting in awkward, bored silence and Beth hasn’t moved. Spencer leans over the bunk for a fifth time to check, but Faith just says, “Give it a rest, already. Little Miss Muffet ain’t talking.”

Spencer rolls her eyes at the botched reference and flops back down on her bed, staring at the ceiling. “She’s just usually more forthcoming.” The restlessness of Shark Week sets in fast, but now Spencer’s feeling especially cooped up. Every minute they waste here is another minute Quinn might not have to spare.

“Oh yeah, she’s a real chatterbox,” Faith says sarcastically.

At the moment, however, it’s not Beth’s words (or lack thereof) that give Spencer pause -- it’s the fact that Beth’s still here at all. She’s almost always made herself scarce, leaving behind her messages and going into hiding. It’s been months since Beth wrote in a web and then remained with it. There must be something more she wants to say, but if so, why isn’t she just saying it? Knowing now that Beth eats flesh makes her lingering presence very creepy, almost like she’s --

_Oh god._

“Uh, guys?” Spencer says awkwardly. “What if --” She stops herself just as Faith and Lucy look up at her from their bunks, uninterested. Spencer hops down and goes to the far back corner, the furthest distance from the spider. She motions for the others to join her, and after a moment, they shuffle over, if only because there’s nothing else to do. They huddle together under a particularly disturbing painting Lucy made of what looks like a demonic monster from a fantasy video game with blazing red eyes, broad horns bulging from its head, and a ripped, muscular torso. It’s labeled “MOOSE.”

“I think she’s watching us,” Spencer whispers. Both girls turn to look over at the web, but Spencer smacks both their arms with the backs of her hands. “PSSST. BE COOL.” Lucy immediately turns back with fire in her eyes, and Spencer can’t believe she just hit Lucy. “Sorry, sorry, Lannister!” she retracts with her hands up. “Just...what if she was sent to keep an eye on us?”

“Why, because we’re going to just walk out of here?” Faith asks dryly.

“I don’t know.”

“Wait,” Faith says, “‘Sent’? Who _sent_ her?”

“The others,” Lucy answers for her. She catches Spencer’s eye, as they’re suddenly on the same page. “You think they’re working together!” Lucy asks excitedly. “I’m so proud of her for making spider friends!”

“Uh, friends who tried to kill me?” Faith adds.

“Maybe?” Spencer says. “I mean, it wouldn’t be the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” It certainly makes more sense than thinking Beth was taking orders from a human. But if she really is a _spy_ -der ( _ha ha ha_ ), there’s no telling what all has been a ruse thus far. Maybe Beth’s just been _stringing_ Spencer along the whole time. (Really, she almost wants to say these out loud. She could do this all night.) “But it leaves the question why.” They’re quiet for a moment before Spencer asks Lucy, “Did she ever give you any reason not to trust her?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” Spencer says. “Everything she said in the webs was true, at least from what I can tell.”

“Okay,” Faith says, “So, what? I can take her out right n--”

“NO!” Spencer and Lucy shout together, echoing much louder than they wanted. Spencer buries her face in her hands. “I don’t think she’s really working with them,” she says finally. It’s not that she can’t believe it, it’s that she honestly doesn’t want to. It depresses her too much to think everything she’s built this case on has been a lie. “If Beth says Quinn is alive, then she must be.”

Lucy seems visibly relieved that the conversation is going in this direction.

“Yeah,” Faith says, “because writing, _‘I’m going to help them kill you in your sleep’_   doesn’t really fit on the web.”

“Look,” says Spencer, “right now, I don’t think we have any other choice but to trust her. If she’s working with the others and she really wanted us dead, I think we would be. Why take Quinn instead?”

“I still can’t believe they would want to hurt us,” Lucy says sadly. “They’re such peaceful creatures. They must have really needed a mother. I should’ve been there for them.”

“Okay,” Faith says, “so she’s _not_ watching us, then?” She gestures her head back toward Beth. “Thanks for the pep talk, boss.” She turns and climbs back up to throw herself down on the bed, jerking with the rattling frame.

Spencer sighs and walks back over toward the web, standing with crossed arms and contemplating their next move. They still don’t even know for certain that Quinn is missing. Everything feels upside-down, like a bad dream.

On a whim, a combination of frustration and exhaustion, Spencer marches to the cell door and shouts, _“Quinn?”_   But the only responses are some cat-calls and angry _“Shut up!”_ s – which is what she expected. As if it were that easy.

A few moments later, Buffy makes her way to their end, drawn by the noise, and settles in right next to the cell door. She stares Spencer down, basically inviting her to make a scene, _Pretty please_.

_Great._

This is going to make their conversation much more difficult now that Big Sister is listening. They silently agree, _ixnay on the word ider-spay._ Faith sighs loudly and pulls herself back down from the bed to stand with her cellmates as they contemplate their next move. Beth’s still just chilling on the bed frame, in no hurry to give them any more information. Quinn’s alive, so her job here is clearly done. What the fuck else could they need to know?

Spencer takes a deep breath and tries to regain control of the situation. “Okay, now what?”

“Who says it even matters?” Faith whispers. “She could write ‘Next door, dumbass’ and there still isn’t shit we can do about it.” She motions to Buffy with her head. _“She’s_ in no hurry to do me any favors.”

“Well, I’m out of ideas,” Spencer says with a sigh. “We have to do something.”

“Keep saying that,” Faith says dryly. “It’s so helpful.”

“There has to be something we’re missing. I swear, Beth is the key to all this.”

“No,” says Buffy, eavesdropping, _“Dawn_ is the key.” She looks proud of her joke.

Spencer doesn’t get it.

“You bring little sis up here for a day,” Faith grins. “We’ll make her feel right at home.”

Buffy rolls her eyes and says, “Ew. Keep it in your pants.”

Without warning, Sue’s voice echoes through the corridor over the intercom, humming between the metal plated walls. No plinking, no repeated message.

**_CODE PINK_ **

Buffy takes off running before Spencer can ask what’s going on. Bitch is fast.

Faith and Spencer turn to look at Lucy in her pink uniform, but she looks just as confused. “I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Something about Shark Week?” Faith asks.

Spencer’s eyes go wide. If it were about Lucy, the guards wouldn’t have run _away_. And there’s only one other prisoner she associates with the color pink. “It’s Quinn! It has to be.”

“Shit,” Faith says, running a hand through her hair, “I guess she really is gone. She gets her own code?” Considering the question, she then asks herself, “Do I have a code?”

“So, do we wait for the guards to find her?” Lucy asks Spencer.

“It didn’t save the others,” Spencer points out. “They probably don’t even know where to begin looking.”

“Like we do?” Faith snaps. “Unless your magical spider is holding out on us, we’ve got nothing.”

She’s right. “Okay.” Spencer turns to Lucy. “Do you want to ask her, or should I?”

The three girls turn and look at the little spider again. Spencer feels absolutely ridiculous.

“I’ll do it,” Lucy says, running her hands down the front of her pink jumpsuit. “I think it’s time we reconnected.”

With a few tentative steps, Lucy sits down on her bunk about a foot from the web. She leans in to where Beth is resting and speaks softly to her.

“Hello, Beth, my darling. It’s so very good to see you again. You’re looking well. I’ve missed you oh so very much. How have you been?”

“You gonna ask her about the weather, too?” Faith mocks impatiently.

“Weather?” Lucy asks, confused, like she’s never heard the word before.

Faith sighs and turns away to pace back and forth in the cell.

Lucy shakes it off and refocuses. “It seems like you’re here to help us, and we...want to trust you. You and I were very close once, and now it seems your sisters have taken my sister. Now, I know they had their reasons --” Lucy glares at Spencer “-- but we don’t want any more spiders to get hurt.” Now Spencer’s the one glaring at Lucy. “We just want to save Quinn.”

Beth doesn’t move.

Lucy closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “Please tell us where she is. It looks like you know, and that you want us to know. So, just, tell us. Please, Beth. Show us we can trust you.”

A quiet moment passes, and then, just like that, Beth starts moving again. She begins extending her web downward, creating a backdrop for more letters below her previous message. Then, she adds thread one segment at a time.

“She’s writing!” Lucy says, clapping. It’s the happiest she’s looked in days.

The other girls rush over and watch the magic unfold before them. Line by line, the first letter takes shape. She’s still scurrying quickly back and forth when Spencer says, “‘G’! I think it’s a ‘G’!”

As Beth connects the final horizontal thread, a loud whooshing noise fills the corridor. The space just beyond the cell door, where a snarky Buffy stood not five minutes before, flashes in and out with a bluish haze.

“Whoa! The fuck?” Faith calls out over the whirr.

Spencer recognizes what’s happening, and she holds her hands up to block out the incoming wind and light. The force pushes her back several steps, but then, as the TARDIS comes fully into view, she comes forward again for a closer look.

The same red-headed woman from before pokes her head out the door. It’s a bit cautious, but once she seems to realize she’s in the same place, she claps her hands excitedly with a, “Ha HA!” and steps fully out of the big, blue box.

“The hell is that?!” Faith says behind her.

The woman catches Spencer’s eye and pauses, recognizing her. “You! I remember you! I saw you yesterday!”

_Yesterday?_

“You know her?” Faith asks Spencer.

“Not really.”

 _“Hey! What’s going on over there?”_ a voice carries from next door.

“Fuck off,” Faith calls back.

 _“Who is that?”_  Nichols continues. _“She hot?”_

“How ‘bout you bury that nose back in Johanna’s snatch and leave us the fuck alone?” Faith snaps, banging on the wall with two dull thuds.

_“On Shark Week? I’m not an animal.”_

“Look, d’you know anyone called Dolores?” the woman continues.

 _“You can call me Dolores, baby,”_  Big Boo’s voice chimes in.

“Please don’t,” Spencer says to Donna.

But it’s bugging her -- The name sounds vaguely familiar, but she can’t place it. Maybe she heard it in one of the classes she visited with Mack? Or saw it on one of the office files, maybe. There are at least a hundred girls up here. One of them’s bound to be. Maybe this Donna woman is who put Dolores in here and she’s come to get her back out.

“Who are you, again?” Faith asks, just as Spencer was about to do so herself, but the woman doesn’t get a chance to reply.

 _“Spencer?”_  Lucy’s voice makes Spencer’s blood run cold. “Where’s Beth?”

She turns, suddenly not at all interested in their visitor. “What do you mean?”

“Who’s Beth?” the woman says.

Lucy is wide-eyed. “She was right here on the web, but now I don’t see her.”

“Check the bed,” Spencer says, looking down, and she starts scouring the floor with careful steps. “She can’t have gone far.”

“Oi,” the redhead says impatiently, “Where’s Dolores! She under the bed, too?”

Spencer gets on her hands and knees to look under Lucy’s bed, then the other bottom bunk, and that’s when Lucy screams.

“NO!”

“What?! Where?!”

Lucy’s pointing, horrified, to the bottom of Spencer’s shoe.

_NO…_

“Oh my god. Oh my god!” Spencer rips off her shoe and looks, but there’s no question -- Beth is now a spider pancake. The chaos of the TARDIS’s entrance must’ve thrown Beth off the web and in Spencer’s path, crushing her like an oncoming train. “It was an accident! The wind, it pushed me back...I wasn’t looking... _Fuck!”_

Beth was the only chance they had at finding Quinn, the only one who knew where she was, and now she’s dead. Spencer throws the shoe at the wall in rage, and Lucy screams again in horror.

“It’s not like she can get any more dead!” Spencer screams back.

“Who’s dead!?” the woman asks. Now _she_ sounds scared.

Lucy marches over and slaps Spencer clear across the face.

Without hesitation, Spencer slaps her right the fuck back just as hard.

“Oh shit,” Faith says, stepping back.

Lucy stares Spencer down but says nothing. Spencer’s starting to think no one has ever hit Lucy Fabray before. Or at least, no one has ever lived to talk about it. Lucy’s breathing heavily and looking like she might snap at any moment. After all, where could Spencer run?

“Okay, so, what now? Plan B, anyone?” Faith asks, in a thin but necessary attempt to get them back on track.

“WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON,” the redhead yells.

“FUCK OFF, LADY,” Faith snaps back at her.

The woman steps back, visibly put off by the comment, then flashes Faith a two-fingered gesture when she looks away.

Lucy and Spencer aren’t moving. The pain and horror and sadness of the situation is still sinking in. Spencer looks to the web, but there’s just an empty space after the letter G where more was clearly meant to be.

She looks at Lucy and says, as a peace offering, “We tried. She still trusted you. It wasn’t for nothing.”

“She trusted you, too,” Lucy replies thickly. “And now, what do we have? _Nothing_.”

Spencer turns away and tries to hold it together. Every time they get another step closer, something takes them two steps back. This time, it was a blue spaceship literally pushing her right on top of their only lead. She can’t help but feel responsible for the mess they’re in, and for whatever might happen to Quinn now. But she has to be the voice of strength and reason here. She has to be the one with the plan.

She has to save Quinn.

Spencer turns to the woman and says, “Yeah, so, hi again. Thanks to your grand entrance, I just squashed the only living thing that can tell me where her kidnapped sister is. Who, by the way, was taken by killer space spiders that are going to eat her alive, if they haven’t already. So, thanks _so_ much for that.”

“...Who’s been squashed?”

“Beth,” says Lucy.

Faith shrugs. “Spider.”

“A killer spider,” the woman clarifies.

“A good one,” says Spencer.

“A _good_ killer spider.”

Lucy asserts her authority with her tone. “She was my daughter.” A beat. “Kind of.”

“Your daughter’s a spider,” the woman says, restating it as if that’d help it make more sense.

“I loved her and she’s dead,” Lucy says sternly. The expression on her face makes it quite clear that’s the end of the conversation.

But the redhead just returns her sass. “I thought we _wanted_ to kill the evil space spiders!”

“No!” Lucy cries.

“Ohhh yes we do!” Spencer retorts. Immediately, she realizes her mistake and says, _“Not Beth!”_  She runs her hands through her hair. This is getting way out of hand.

“Just...you know, the rest of them,” Faith says.

“Not the sister we’re rescuing,” the woman clarifies.

Spencer’s had it up to here with this. “Quinn’s _not a spider_.”

“Who’s Quinn?”

 _“HER SISTER”_  
_“MY SISTER”_

The redhead holds her hands out with raised eyebrows. “I’M JUST ASKING.”

Spencer’s done. “We don’t have time for this! _You_ need to find a way to let us out so we can save Quinn.”

The redhead stands her ground. “I do, do I? Well, sorry for you, I’m here to find Dolores. One crisis at a time.”

“Who is Dolores?” Spencer snaps. “While we’re at it, who are YOU?”

She huffs a bit and stands taller, as if quite put off that she’d be questioned this way. “Donna Noble, kickass time traveler space doctor...woman. Who are _you_?”

“Spencer…” She freezes. “Wait, Dolores _Umbridge_?”

“Who?” asks Faith.

“The psychiatrist.”

“Bet _she’s_ a busy woman,” Donna says under her breath.

Spencer turns back to her and steps forward. “Umbridge sent you a message? How? When?”

“A distress call, yesterday. Just before you saw me.”

“That was months ago,” Spencer says.

“Was it? Shit. Sorry. Still learning how to drive this thing.”

“What IS that thing?” Faith asks.

“Space ship. Time travel,” Donna repeats, annoyed. “We got this message about killer monsters eating people, and I thought, ‘Well, okay, that’s disgusting, but I can’t just _leave_ her there to get eaten.’ But he was all, ‘Booo, space lesbians blah blah, prison scary boooo.’ ”

_Oh, right -- there was a guy with her._

“Where is he?”

“Lingering about some market on a planet somewhere.” Donna handwaves. “I’ll be back before he knows I’ve gone off.”

“Well, this has to be about the spiders.” Spencer turns to look at everyone, shaken to her core. “That frog-faced bitch knew about it the whole time.” In their sessions together, the woman had the gall to blatantly lie to her face and make her think she was crazy.

 _You’d think a prison psychiatrist would know better than to mess with killers and piss them off_. _Why was she hiding this? How much does she really know?_

Spencer turns to Lucy as she puts the pieces together. “Do you think she knew they were going after Quinn?”

But Lucy isn’t listening; she’s walking toward the bars slowly, staring down her prey. “You came to help us, before. But, instead, you left. You left us here to die.” She lets that sit for a beat. “You did nothing.”

“Hey, I wanted to stay,” Donna protests. “The Doctor, he said --”

“If you’d stayed,” Lucy continues, “we wouldn’t have been attacked in the night. She” -- Faith -- “wouldn’t have been targeted. And my sister would be safe.” Each word is thick with implication, making the already crowded room even smaller.

“Well, she came back,” Spencer says, “so let’s work with that.” No need to get the mass-murderer any more riled up. They have to keep moving forward. Quinn might still be alive, and what’s done is done. “She’s here to help us.”

“To help _Dolores_ ,” Donna says for the millionth time.

Spencer isn’t giving up that easily. She’s the daughter of a lawyer and knows a thing or two about bargaining. “Well, I can take you to her.”

Donna squints at her suspiciously. “Tell me the way.”

“I can’t. This place is like a damn maze. But I promise, I can get you there. I’ve been to her office more than once.”

“Aren’t there any guards in this prison?” Donna says, looking around, wondering why she hasn’t seen any.

“Yep, fully armed, and if they come back before you’ve freed us, her sister is spider food and you’ll be the next inmate. I’ve heard a lot of the other girls talking about how much they just _love_ redheads.”

Donna’s considering her options. She doesn’t seem to like the thought of releasing indicted space criminals, but becoming one isn’t a superior alternative. “None of you’s ever killed anyone, right?”

“Uh…” Spencer doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

But then Lucy adds, “Other than _my spider_?” and Spencer cringes again. “Not today.”

Donna rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically. “Shit. Fine. Just…” She moves her hand up and down in front of her body, pointing in self-reference, and says, “NOT A KILLER SPIDER. Alright?” Reaches into her jacket pocket, Donna pulls out the same strange pen-size contraption her companion had with him last time. “Stand back.”

“What is that?” Lucy asks.

“Sonic screwdriver.”

“A what-in-a-who?” Faith asks.

“Is it dangerous?” Spencer says, moving clear out of the way.

“No idea,” Donna says, pointing it at the lock and giving the device a shake, like that’d start it up. It doesn’t.

Spencer blinks. “...Uh, is it supposed to...”

“No idea,” she says again, and then she pushes a button on the side and a loud buzzing noise fills the room. Spencer covers her ears, only letting go when the latch on the cell door clicks. She tentatively reaches forward and gives it a yank, and sure enough, the door slides open without a fight.

Donna jumps and cheers, clearly quite pleased with herself.

“Oh, hell yes.” Faith cracks her knuckles with a smile.

Spencer switches into action mode and starts toward the door, looking left down the corridor to see if Buffy’s in sight. She’s not. “Beth gave us a head start on where to look. Quinn’s alive somewhere that starts with a G.” She points to the web where the lone letter still remains.

“This is it?” Donna asks, a bit disappointed. “A literal G-string. No wonder you like it.” Nobody else seems to think it’s funny.

Faith ignores her and looks to Spencer. “One of the gyms, maybe? There’s four, right?”

“Mmhmm,” Lucy says. “It could be any of them.”

“Gym _s_?” Donna repeats. The plurality of that seems surprising, as it should. “OH, right. Lesbians, athletics. Go on.”

“When I was in Sue’s office the other day,” Spencer says, “she told Becky to have Raven give her a status update on something called the G. Do you think that could be this?”

“What’s it stand for?” Lucy asks.

“I don’t know. But whatever it is, it could be a connection between Sue and the spiders.”

“Somebody had to bankroll it,” Faith offers. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“It still doesn’t tell us where to find Quinn,” Lucy says.

“Can you think of anywhere else that starts with ‘G’?” Spencer asks the room.

Nobody responds.

“Gyms it is, then,” Faith shrugs.

“Maybe Umbridge -- Dolores -- knows which one the spiders are using. Let’s start there.” Spencer pushes past Donna and looks both ways one more time. Running into Buffy or Boomer is the last thing they need right now. It’s been a suspiciously long time since they’ve seen a guard, but that Code Pink seems to have bought them some time. They were due for a lucky break. She heads to the left, down the corridor, with Faith two steps behind.

“Spencer, wait,” Lucy calls, sitting back down on Santana’s old bunk. “I want to help Quinn,” she says carefully. “You know I do. She’s the only family I have.” Her eyes look sad. “But I can’t hurt them. I just can’t.”

“You’re not coming?” Faith is pissed.

“They’re not Beth and I know that, but it’s just too soon.” Lucy’s voice is shaky and sincere, another rare moment of vulnerability and relinquishing of control.

Spencer knows all too well that there’s fire behind the smoke, and she’s not going to let Lucy off the hook, not when they need all the help they can get. Walking back toward Lucy, Spencer leans over and levels with her, eye to eye with a hardened glare. She doesn’t have time to coddle crazy people. “Fine. Don’t kill any spiders. Whatever. But Quinn needs you, and we need you, so get the fuck up. Let’s go.”

She turns and steps back out the door, trusting that Lucy is behind her this time. Spencer looks at Donna and says, “Her office is this way. But we need to make a stop first.”


	41. Jailbreaking News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

“Hey! Whoa, guys!” Nichols calls as the group passes her cell. “Come on! Help a sister out!”

The newly minted rescue gang -- Spencer, Donna, Faith, and Lucy -- blaze right past cells 2 and 3, gaining speed and trying to ignore the confusion they’re causing amongst the other inmates.

“Hastings!”

Spencer stops in her tracks without meaning to. There’s just something about Vee’s voice that scares the shit out of her. The woman in cell 4 steps up to the bars and Spencer turns to face her as bravely as she can.

“I’m kind of in the middle of something right now,” Spencer starts, and she points to the other women around her. “So, this is gonna have to wait.” It’s not that she isn’t interested in whatever dirt Vee may have on her cellmates, it’s that right now, it really doesn’t fucking matter. Not when Quinn’s life is in the balance.

“I can see that. And I’m not trying to slow you down or get you caught. Nor am I even going to ask you to let me out or how you escaped, yourselves.” Spencer waits awkwardly, not knowing if she should just run on or if she needs to await permission. “Do you have something for me?”

_Crap. Hermione’s papers._

“I don’t have time to go back and grab it, so I’m gonna have to get back to y--”

“So, you do have it.” Vee’s fingers curl a little tighter around the bars, tempering her voice, lest she show too much desperation and relinquish control of the conversation.

“Oh, the Clap?” Faith cuts in. “She has it, but trust me, I don’t think you want it.”

Spencer scoffs and delivers her own version of River’s classic “wtf” face. Faith has a knack for not exactly making things better.

“Yes, I have it,” Spencer says tersely, turning to Faith, “-- NOT the Clap --” then looks back to Vee. “And it can wait.” _Geez, lady._ Spencer looks to the others and says, “Come on.”

“I’m not so sure,” Vee calls after her, laden with innuendo. “Suzanne and I were just discussing how much we thought you’d be interested in more information on Quinn Fabray. I guess we were wrong.”

 _That_ certainly gets Spencer’s attention. Vee lets go of the bars and turns away, walking back toward her crazy-eyed cellmate.

“What’s she talking about?” Lucy says. “What do you know about Quinn?”

“Quid pro quo, Miss Hastings.” Vee sits gently on her bottom bunk and reclines like she doesn’t have a care in the world, folding her arms behind her head. “Clock’s ticking.”

It takes a brave soul to ignore Lucy Fabray, but this woman does it with a smile on her face, and that scares the crap out of Spencer. She didn’t grab Hermione’s whole file, just three or four sheets, so what happens when Vee calls her bluff? And why the fuck is Spencer even standing here trying to decide what to do when Quinn could be a five-course meal right this very second? There’s a more than good chance Vee’s just fucking with her. But she’ll never know if she doesn’t pay up.

Her face tightens as she does a quick cost-benefit analysis, weighing the time it’ll take to finish this negotiation versus the imminent guard arrival. It’s already been fifteen minutes since Buffy took off. The longer they just stand here, the more certain their capture becomes.

“FINE.” She looks to the others and says, “Stay here.” Breaking into a run, Spencer hoofs it back to cell 1, ignoring the revived jeers from Nichols in the background. She turns the corner into the cell and throws Lucy’s mattress up, grabbing the manila folder and dumping out the contents. Sure, it’ll look more convincing if the file is full, but, for Lucy’s sake, she doesn’t want to risk the information falling into the wrong hands if this goes south. Jumping across to her own bunk, she retrieves the pink papers stashed away and puts them in the empty file. Unfortunately, it still says **Fabray, Lucy** on the tab. Spencer scours the cell for a pen, something that would look convincing, but doesn’t find anything sharp enough, only crayons and fingerpaint. Her only option is to fold it inside-out so the blank side is showing and pray that Vee doesn’t think it’s suspicious.

Tearing back out at full speed, Spencer makes it back and as fast as she can, heaving breaths, and almost runs right into her impatient cellmates. Prison’s gotten her quite out of shape.

“What are you doing,” Lucy asks more than a little threateningly, as she clearly recognizes the item in question.

“Let me handle this,” Spencer says. It’s hard to be authoritative when she’s this scared, but fortunately the fear gives her the edge she needs. “Trust me. It’s okay.”

Vee stands up and approaches the group again. “Good girl.” Holding her open hand through the bars, she raises her eyebrows expectantly.

“Not so fast,” Spencer says. She reaches in and draws the first pink sheet out, making sure to ruffle them to show there’s more than one in the file before she sets it on the floor. Dangling a carrot, of sorts. She holds it up, close enough so Vee should be able to make out the name, if nothing else, and still out of arm’s reach. “Tell me about Quinn.”

“Spencer --” Lucy starts, more than a little angry, but Spencer snaps back in a hushed voice, “This isn’t your file!” She still doesn’t know what Vee wants with Hermione, but it doesn’t matter right now. It’s the only leverage she has. Spencer looks back at Vee and repeats herself. “Talk. Now.”

Vee’s fingers curl to close her empty hand as she retracts it. “What else do you need to know other than she’s missing right now? You’re wasting your time, and hers. Give me the file.”

Spencer puts the paper back in the folder, lips pursed in disappointment. “Let’s go.”

As the gang takes their first few steps away from the cell, Spencer hears Vee call out, “She used to be with that dominatrix woman, Rachel Berry. They were lovers. Maybe that’s who took her.”

_Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?_

Stopping again, Spencer takes the paper back out of the file, walks closer to Vee and holds it out. But instead of giving it to her, Spencer tears it in half at the last second, then tears the pieces again and again. Being outside the bars sure is giving her a power trip. But at this point, she has no time to waste and nothing to lose. She crumples the bits into a ball and stuffs it down her jumpsuit. It’s a gesture of dominance she soon regrets, as it itches immediately against her stomach. She draws a second form out of the folder and holds it up, still out of reach. “Try again. Something I _don’t_ already know this time.”

Vee’s face is cold, yet she seems a little impressed by Spencer’s gumption. They’re playing hardball now. The woman must appreciate a worthy adversary. “She’s missing a toe. The handiwork of your former cellmate, in fact. Perhaps _that’s_ who’s taken Quinn for dinner this evening.”

Behind her, Donna leans over to Faith and starts to ask, “What’s she talk--”

But Faith cuts her off. “Just, don’t.”

Without missing a beat, Spencer tears the second form in half, then twice more, and stuffs it in her uniform. Vee’s face drops a bit, but only for a moment, not wanting to show weakness. Spencer’s tactics seem to be effectively getting to her, but they’re not any closer to finding Quinn. Spencer knows neither Mistress Berry nor Santana had anything to do with last night’s events. “Don’t insult me,” she adds as she draws the third paper from the folder and dangles it like a prize. She’s having more fun playing bad cop than she imagined.

The only problem is, there were only four papers in the folder. She’s running out of bluffing chips.

Veey says, “I’m the one being insulted here if you really think I believe those are papers from Hermione’s file and not some blanks from Sue’s desk.”

… _That would’ve been a good idea. I should’ve thought of that._

“Donna,” Spencer says, not breaking eye contact with Vee, “who only just showed up here and doesn’t know any of us or our last names -- What name do you see at the top of this form?” She holds the paper up to the space beside her.

Donna walks over and leans over, getting close enough to read it. “Hermione Granger.”

Spencer gives Vee a look that says, _Your move, bitch._

Vee squints a bit as her expression hardens. “Fine. Perhaps your girlfriend was more forthcoming than I remembered.”

Spencer can feel Lucy flare with anger behind her at the words _“your girlfriend,”_  yet, the phrasing makes Spencer’s pulse race just a little faster. In a good way. It’s the first time she’s ever heard the expression used about her.

Vee tilts her head slightly and adds, “I wonder if she got around to telling you she’s a test-tube baby. A clone, to be more specific. Made from _her.”_  The glare at Lucy is unmistakable.

“Wait, _what?!”_  Donna says, but Faith’s just holding up a hand again to shut her up. But it’s hard to hear Donna’s questioning over the sounds of ripping paper, anyway.

“Three strikes, you’re out,” Spencer says as she stuffs one more pink ball into her suit. If anything, she’s honestly disappointed that Vee’s wasted the last five minutes of her time. “Thanks for playing.” She wants to stay and ask how the fuck Vee knows so much about Quinn in the first place, especially the last part, but it’s not the right moment. She’s glad she didn’t risk stealing the whole file for this dead end. Whatever treasures of information lie in Sue’s office will have to keep until later, assuming there is a ‘later’. Right now, all that matters is --

“This isn’t a game, Spencer,” Vee says. “I’m sure that’s what all the other girls thought, though. Right before Quinn killed them.”

Spencer’s heart stops.

A grin creeps across Vee’s smug fucking face. “Ahh, there it is. I knew you couldn’t have known everything. You wouldn’t want to be anywhere near her if you did.”

Her heart’s pounding in her ears, but Spencer can’t hear it, can’t hear anything except the words _“before Quinn killed them”_  repeating endlessly in her mind. Everything else Vee’s said was true, so why wouldn’t this be? Of course Quinn’s not here for a harmless bank hacking job. Her cellmates said it, themselves -- most everyone here’s killed somebody. But Spencer didn’t want it to be true, not about Quinn. She didn’t want them to have this in common, too.

Her limbs are heavy, but she manages to pull the last sheet from the folder on the ground, trembling as she holds it before her. “Last chance. Keep talking.”

“Spence,” Faith cuts in, “we need to _go_.”

“NO!” And just like that, her eyes are brimming with tears of frustration and betrayal, of lies and withholding. Of faked intimacy. Sure, Lucy’s killed thirty-seven people, but at least she was upfront about it before she put her hands all over Spencer. This somehow feels much, much dirtier. This feels unclean, a violation. “Talk,” she says meekly, just barely holding herself together.

“Quinn’s killed more people than anyone else on this ship, Spencer. _Almost_.” Another pointed look at Lucy. “I’m sorry she didn’t feel you were close enough to be honest wi--”

“DON’T PATRONIZE ME,” Spencer shouts, tears streaming openly now. “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE.” Her quivering hands tear the top of the page unintentionally, but it keeps Vee’s attention.

“Fair enough,” Vee says gently. “I’m sorry.” She takes a breath before continuing. “Quinn’s a serial killer.” The four words hit Spencer like a hammer to the head. “Tried and convicted. They found at least twenty victims, so they had to try her as an adult even though she was only sixteen. Someone paid off the media to suppress the story. Millions of dollars. But folks in our world, we knew who she was.” There’s a quiet beat, then she adds sincerely, “I’m truly sorry you didn’t.”

Spencer’s trying to breathe, but the ship’s oxygenation system must have shorted, because there’s not nearly enough air. She looks at Faith, then Lucy, unable to read either of their expressions. “Did you know?” she mumbles weakly, blinking another tear away.

Lucy simply stares. Then she gives a small shrug.

“It’s no big deal,” Faith says, breaking the silence. Her tone is that of a supportive friend, but Spencer can’t imagine considering anyone a friend who withheld this from her.

Another look back to Lucy. _“You_ didn’t want to tell me?” Spencer starts. “I thought you’d take any opportunity to push me away from her.”

“I care about you, Spencer,” Lucy says simply. “Killers have feelings, too.” There’s a thinness to her voice that doesn’t quite match her words. Maybe Lucy’s battling some conflicting emotions of her own. “And you didn’t want to know.”

The moment hangs heavy around them until Vee finally breaks the silence by clearing her throat, her hand once again outstretched. Spencer scoffs again and crumples up the final paper into a ball, throwing it at Vee’s face with a “Fuck you” as she picks up the folder and storms off down the hall.

“Hey!” Vee calls. “What about the rest!”

“There is no rest!” Spencer shouts back, holding the empty folder’s tab and letting it fall open, flipping Vee a bird with her free hand. “Get it yourself.”

Faith and Lucy turn and hurry to catch up to Spencer, leaving Donna standing alone awkwardly, not really sure what she just witnessed. “Well, this was fun. Nice to meet you.” And with that, she takes off down the hall as the other prisoners leer and holler. “Brilliant stop. Absolutely worth it,” she calls up ahead.

Vee sighs with frustration into the paper ball curled tightly in her fist, then goes back to sit beside Suzanne and lick her proverbial wounds.

“That white girl played you like a banjo,” Poussey says from the top bunk with a grin, not looking up from her tattered copy of _Sweet Honey Valley._


	42. Suit Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

_“D’you see that?”_

_“What the hell?”_

_“No fucking way…”_

Spencer’s running now, and they’re drawing plenty of attention from the inmates who happen to catch her zipping by full speed -- or Donna, Lucy, and Faith trailing not far behind her. Kat bangs on the bars of cell 8 to try to call them back, earning a firm elbow to the ribcage from Graham. Most of the inmates seem to know the protocol of not drawing too much attention to anyone who’s escaped. Hermione notwithstanding.

This isn't a rescue mission. Well, it is -- just not for them -- but there’s no time to explain that right now. Spencer doesn’t even know if she wants to rescue anyone anymore, anyway. She doesn’t _want_ to want to anymore. She really wants to go home. She wants to curl up into the arms of someone who loves her. Someone who trusts her and cares about her and, _fuck_. She doesn’t want this to be _happening, ANY_ of it.

Spencer’s head is pounding. _Quinn’s a serial killer_. The words repeat over and over, each time cutting as deeply as the first. And here she’d been stupid enough to think she’d fallen for the one not- _too_ -bad criminal in this place. Other than herself, of course. She thought it was real between them. Turns out she was just another notch on Quinn’s proverbial bedpost of death.

Her deadpost.

What was it Paulie said about Quinn? That she _“sees the beauty in death?”_

How many times did Boomer tell Quinn to stay up on her bunk when she opened the door? Nobody else ever got singled out. Only the most dangerous person in the room.

_I’m so fucking stupid._

And the worst fucking part is that it doesn’t even change how Spencer feels about Quinn. Not in a real way. She’s upset as hell, and if Quinn isn’t eaten alive by spiders, Spencer might kill her with her own two hands. But she definitely doesn’t want Quinn to die today, not like that. Maybe this was the gut check she needed. Even after all of this, murderous psychotic or not, Spencer still has feelings for her.

_Fine._

_Quinn’s a serial killer, but she’s_ my _serial killer._

_Put that on a fucking Hallmark card._

Spencer watches the numbers above the cells as she runs, and she comes to a halt in front of 10, grabbing the bars with both hands. Mack and Aphasia both instantly sit up.

Quinn’s not there.

_Fuck._

“Whoa, what the hell?” Mack starts, looking around for any sign of Buffy. “What are you doing?!”

“This the same girl, right?” Aphasia asks Mack. “That skinny bitch who stole my tampon.”

_Seriously?_

“How'd you get out?” Mack asks with a very accusing tone.

“We don’t have much time,” Spencer says. “Where’s Quinn?”

“She ain’t here,” Aphasia says haughtily.

Spencer looks to Mack as the voice of reason, which is frightening enough.

“Transferred, maybe,” she says. “Boomer came and got her last night, right after lockdown.”

Spencer's eyes widen at the good news. “What?! Where?” They've just run past half the cells and there was no sign of her. Well, probably. Spencer wasn't exactly looking hard.

“She didn't say,” Aphasia replies with far more attitude than Spencer wants to take right now.

_What crawled up her ass?_

“Did we pass her?” Faith asks Spencer.

“I don't know. Go check?” Spencer says. “Ask around even if you don't see her. I still have a really bad feeling about this.” She thinks for a moment, then says to Mack and Aphasia, “Wait here, we'll be right back,” as if there were anywhere else for them to go. Turning to Lucy and Donna, Spencer says, “Come on,” and keeps heading in their original direction to check cells 11-20. She paces quickly, looking for the flash of pink hair on or behind every bunk. There just isn't time to interrogate every cell, and she doesn't want to make too much noise and draw the guards from wherever the hell they are, so she simply says, “Has anyone seen Quinn?” as loudly as she dares.

No one seems in too helpful of a mood. Not without a trade for freedom. Spencer's bullshit-detector is fully powered up, and she's not going to get dicked around again. Not after the Vee conversation. But still, either direction Quinn was taken, there are at least nine cells of women who would've seen her. _Is nobody really going to help?_

Her heart sinks a little more and more as they run out of cells to try. And, sure enough, they reach Corky and Violet on the end without any sign of Quinn. Doubling back to check once more, they meet up with Faith at the halfway point and confirm the bad news.

“No go,” Faith reports.

“Shit,” Spencer sighs, running her hand through her hair in frustration. If Quinn simply was taken to another cell, then what was Beth's G message supposed to be? It's possible it was a C for “cell” but there was a pretty clear horizontal line. Everyone agreed.

“Where the fuck is she?” Mack asks, once again voicing the obvious questions on everyone's mind.

“I don't know,” Spencer admits impatiently. “She has to be somewhere.” The possibility that she's already in little spider bellies is simply too agonizing to consider. “Okay, if she was transferred to another cell last night, there's still the possibility that the spiders took her from there.”

Running through the possible timeline of events, Spencer curses silently at the unfortunate coincidence -- With the seat belts here, this cell is the safest one of all from a floating heist, and Quinn just happened to be moved from it hours before she gets taken. In any other cell, she's like a damn drive-thru meal. It can’t be a coincidence, can it? Spencer envisions them crawling up the walls and onto the ceiling, then stepping right into the unsuspecting hair of a peacefully sleeping girl. Easy pickings.

“I fucking _hate_ these fucking spiders!” Spencer says exasperatedly, running her fingers through her hair.

“You still on this spider bullshit?” Aphasia says. “Girl, you need a hobby.”

“BOY, WOULDN'T I REALLY LIKE TO HAVE ONE OTHER THAN SOLVING MURDERS.”

Taking a deep breath, Spencer pulls her death glare away from Aphasia and tries to reason with Mack as calmly as she can, considering how much she kind of hates her, even still. “Look, it doesn’t make sense that Sue would call a Code Pink if she knows where Quinn is, right? So, she must not be where she was transferred to anymore.”

Spencer gives Mack’s inferior brain a moment to process that information before continuing. “We have a lead on where Quinn might be, if this transfer thing is bullshit.” Another deep breath. This conspiracy theory is never well-received. “We think she’s been taken by killer spiders. The same ones who wrote that web about killing Jenny, even though you didn’t believe it wasn’t me. They've been eating girls all over the prison for months. I can prove it. And they’re going to have Quinn for breakfast if we don’t hurry up.” She doesn’t have time to deal with any of Mack’s bullying crap. “You have five seconds to decide if you’re going to help us or not, and I swear to _god_ if --”

“I’m in,” Mack says without hesitation.

That stops Spencer in her tracks. “Really?”

“I hate spiders.”

Lucy frowns.

Something behind Spencer catches Mack’s eye, and she says, randomly, “Who the fuck are _you?”_

“Nobody! Never mind me!” Donna says back in a super friendly voice. After Mack looks away, Donna mumbles to her traveling companions, “Fantastic waypoints, by the way. No rush to get to Dolores. Let’s keep doing this more.”

Spencer steels her expression and remains in control, staring Mack down. “She’s the one who’s gonna get the door open. If I tell her to.”

Aphasia tuts and climbs back up on her bed with a laugh. “Please. Anyone can do that.” Everyone turns toward her, as if awaiting an explanation, but Aphasia just rolls her eyes and offers none.

Spencer looks back to Mack.

“Let’s go. Open the door,” Mack says, and Donna starts fumbling with the silver device again to find the right setting. After two tries, she still hasn’t gotten it.

“Amethyst,” mutters Aphasia.

Spencer sighs. “Amateur?” she corrects.

Now Aphasia’s the one confused, like she didn’t hear that right. “‘Am I a chair’?”

_Oh my god._

“PLEASE JUST OPEN THE DOOR,” Spencer shouts more loudly than she means to, face buried in her hands.

“Alright, alright! Keep your knickers on. Here, look out,” Donna says gently to Lucy, who’s closest to the door, then points the sonic screwdriver and fires.

Spencer grimaces at the sound waves, but they don’t last long. The door latch unlocks, and Spencer wastes no time letting herself in. She approaches Aphasia’s bunk with a renewed sense of purpose. “Tell me you have some weapons.”

Donna looks very confused. “Hang on. What?” She looks around, like there must be some giant, invisible arms closet on the back wall she’s missing. “This _is_ a prison cell, yeah?” she whispers to no one in particular.

Faith crosses her arms and stares at Aphasia. “She has mine.”

“And mine,” Lucy adds, dryly.

Spencer looks from Lucy to Aphasia, now just as confused as Donna. How the hell would Aphasia have all that?

_When did this happen? HOW?_

Aphasia doesn’t look ready to budge.

“We’re going after Quinn,” Mack says. “So, move your fucking ass before I _make_ you move.”

Aphasia huffs and climbs down until she’s standing on the side of what used to be Spencer’s bed. She grabs the end of the mattress and flips it over, pulling it off the bed frame completely. It hits the floor with a soft thud, and Spencer can’t believe what she’s seeing.

It’s a dark, open space. It’s three-dimensional; there is depth to it, but god only knows how deep it goes. Aphasia’s laid down some horizontal beams across the frame so her mattress won’t fall in. Spencer can only see a little bit without stepping any closer, but there’s definitely property in there. It seems completely removed from reality itself, as it’s somehow occupying the space where Spencer used to sit and sleep and read. She leans over to look underneath it, and sure enough, she just sees the solid, metal frame on the underside. She goes back and forth a few times – black void on top, gray frame underneath -- and it’s clear that this is some fucked up shit. It’s a gateway into another dimension. And it’s the trippiest thing Spencer’s ever seen in her life.

It’s a veritable black hole.

A floating, black hole _full of stuff_.

Spencer hasn’t taken enough physics classes for this.

She moves forward to get a better look, but Aphasia turns and points at her, screaming, “BACK THE FUCK UP. I TOLD YOU THIS AIN’T WAL-MART.”

Without taking a daring eye off Spencer, Aphasia reaches into the nothingness and digs around; it sounds like she’s rummaging through a junkyard or a bag of pots and pans. Spencer sees her pick up and toss aside the plastic orange pumpkin of candy, then reach deeper where it had been. Aphasia finds a small knife with a wooden handle, holds it up to the light, looks it over, and tosses it back inside. She then finds a second knife, examines and rejects it as well. The third knife, one with a fancy, curved blade with a slit in it, she turns and hands to Faith.

“Much obliged,” Faith responds with a grin that’s for the weapon, not its keeper.

“How is this even POSSIBLE?” Spencer shouts.

_Is no one seeing this but me? This DEFIES REALITY._

_WHAT IS HAPPENING?_

Aphasia stops and turns, then says to Spencer, “Would you shut the fuck up? She did a thing, okay? Awhile back, to thank me the first time.” Her tone makes it clear she doesn’t want to discuss it any further.

_Hermione. Of course._

_It’s a spell, when Aphasia got her the wand back._

“So...it creates extra space,” Spencer says, making sure she understands.

Aphasia keeps digging, not looking over. “Yeah, it can make anything bigger inside.”

 _Even an inset bedframe_ , Spencer muses. It’s genius.

“HA!” Donna says, making Spencer jump. “Bigger on the inside!” She seems to be the only person in on her own joke. “Phone box, prison bed -- everything’s bigger on the inside these days. What next? Shopping basket?” she mutters to herself. Then, her tone changes. “Actually, that’d be quite helpful.” She says to Aphasia, “By the way, I’m good, thanks. No knives for me. I’ll just be the door-opener…person.” She waves the screwdriver in the air and breathes, “All set!” a bit nervously.

But Aphasia’s already moved on to something else. “Katniss left this,” she says, pulling the next item out. It’s a crossbow, fully loaded, with accompanying quiver.

“DIBS!” Mack shouts, practically falling over herself to grab it from Aphasia.

Spencer’s terrified to think about the fifty different ways _this_ could go wrong, but she’s still even more scared of what might come out of the hole next.

“Hey,” Mack says, “what about the blanket?”

Spencer instinctively tenses up. The last time someone talked to Aphasia about a blanket, the argument went on and on for no good reason. “Oh god, can we not do that again, please?”

“Maybe that’s why we can’t fucking find her!” Mack shouts.

Aphasia seems to be considering this point very seriously, so Spencer is forced to ask, “…You think we can’t find Quinn because she’s _hiding under a blanket?_  We’re not playing Hide and Go Seek.” A beat passes, then she asks, much lower, “Right?”

Aphasia gives a cautionary glance to her audience, then seems to decide there’s no harm in discussing something that’s long gone. “Hermione had this magic blanket that makes you invisible if you put it on. It’s how I got around without being caught. And now we can't find it.”

Faith laughs openly, and all eyes turn to her. “What? Come on _._ They can't find their invisible blanket. That's funny.”

“IT'S NOT INVISIBLE,” Aphasia yells back. “It makes YOU invisible. It's dark blue with a bunch of moons and shit on it.”

“Okay, when was the last time you saw it?” Spencer asks, feeling stupid to even entertain the existence of such an item. But, damn, if only she’d known…If it’s for real, it sounds incredibly powerful.

The kind of thing you’d want on a rescue mission in a prison full of deadly guards, for example.

“I let Quinn borrow it a few weeks ago, but she brought it back. I keep it safe in here, right in this corner so I always know where it is.” Something in Aphasia's face changes, softening a bit. She looks at Spencer and says, “I need it to _go do what I do_. And I can't tell her it's gone. ‘Cause that means once she leaves, she can't ever come back, because I can't ever _get_ it back.”

Everyone else is glancing around looking quite confused, but not Spencer. Without the blanket, Aphasia can't get Hermione's wand for her. This is how she’s been doing it. Spencer now remembers the day Aphasia seemingly disappeared, then mysteriously reappeared – the same day Hermione made her quick entrance and exit again. Spencer vaguely recalls the sound of a cell door opening, or maybe closing, while she was face to face with Quinn in that intimate moment. It’s entirely possible that Aphasia had snuck back in unaware while Spencer was mesmerized by her crush. If she’s being honest with herself, an elephant could’ve walked into the cell and Spencer wouldn’t have heard it.

“I can’t let her down like that,” Aphasia says.

There’s a humility in her voice now that Spencer hasn’t heard before. The girl who prides herself on being a master thief was admitting that her prowess was, in fact, merely the result of some serious outside help. And now Aphasia was pulling back the proverbial curtain to show what laid behind the magic: a scared young woman with no options left. The thing that’s kept her going, saving the woman she loves over and over again, has been yanked away from her, leaving her without a purpose or hope.

“So...” Donna breaks the uncomfortable silence even more awkwardly. “No more blanket. Can we leave now?”

Spencer starts to agree but then catches something Aphasia said. “If it’s so valuable to you, why'd you loan it to Quinn?” She remembers all too painfully the hell Aphasia gave Quinn when she borrowed it without permission.

Raising an eyebrow in a very Quinn-like fashion, herself, Aphasia replies, “So she could go spy on you. Too bad you such a ho.”

She grimaces at the accusation, but Spencer's mind immediately races back over the last few weeks, and it's not like she can exactly disagree.

And then, she remembers.

The day she heard someone bang on the cell door while she and Lucy had sex.

_Oh my god. We WERE being watched! I KNEW something seemed weird that day._

_…Oh god._

Quinn was standing there, watching. Right when Spencer had just said over and over how much she wanted Lucy.

All the blood drains out of Spencer’s face.

“I hope she learned something,” Lucy says with a vague air of superiority.

Spencer, however, wants to curl into a ball and die. She's mortified and ashamed and feeling strangely violated, but not in the good ways that were happening at the time.

“Well,” Aphasia says, “ _someone_ needs to learn not to steal from me.” She’s looking at Lucy, but Spencer isn’t sure how she could be the one behind it. Considering Lucy was behind Spencer at the time, ahem. “I mean, I know it's a real good blanket. Once someone's under it, you can't see shit.” Aphasia looks at Spencer now and adds, “That’s how Katniss hid under your bed for two weeks.”

And now, this violated feeling is _off the fucking_ charts. This prison is just FULL of creepers who lie in wait to fuck with Spencer in their abundance of free time. The image of Katniss a foot underneath her, unknown, is skeeving her out beyond measure. And now, Quinn, watching her do those things for who knows how long.

_This fucking invisibility blanket, I swear..._

_But --_

_Oh god._

Invisibility.

“Holy shit. Faith,” Spencer turns with wide eyes. “The night they tried to take you, it was all...weird. It looked like there were parts of you missing, like you were all sliced up. You must’ve been wrapped up in the thread from this blanket!”

“Wait, who?” Aphasia asks angrily.

“You never said anything about this before.” Lucy steps forward with arms crossed. “If someone were sliced into pieces, I would remember.”

_Yes, that’s super comforting, thank you._

“It was hard enough getting you to believe me as it was!” Spencer says. “It felt like a dream anyway, because it didn’t make any sense, but I _knew_ it was real. It had to be this. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“WHO HAS MY BLANKET,” Aphasia shouts.

“THE SPIDERS!” Spencer shouts back, annoyed. “God, it all makes sense! The webs, everything. They can’t make their own thread, so they’ve been stealing it from other places. Everyone's towels, the yarn for Santana's knitting class, MY underwear...”

“Your what, now?” Donna asks innocently.

Spencer turns back to Aphasia. “I know you had a towel, but didn’t you say you lost it?”

“Oh, don’t play stupid with me, white girl. We all saw your psycho crochet dream journal bullshit on the wall. _I killed Jenny, ooh I’m so scary, my mommy's a lawyer, hey Quinn don’t you wanna fuck me, blah blah Taylor Swift blah blah.”_ Aphasia flops her hands back and forth with her tongue hanging out like a dog in one of the stranger imitations Spencer’s seen over her eighteen years.

“THAT WASN’T ME. Ask them --” Spencer points to Faith and Lucy “-- there was a web JUST LIKE IT after they tried to take Faith. They must have come in and taken your blanket.” Spencer’s mind is racing as the pieces are falling into place. “And…I was in the room the whole time. I was _right here_.” She remembers just what took place _right there_ that day and pointedly adds, “Sleeping,” without mentioning the orgasm that induced it. “I guess…they crawled up the bunk, right past me, and pulled it out from under your mattress? But that doesn’t make any sense.”

“How many spiders are we talking, approximately?” Donna chimes in from the back, sounding quite nervous now.

“Probably twenty or so at least. Maybe thirty,” Spencer says.

“And...nobody saw this? No one saw them _thirty spiders_ coming down the hall into the cell?” Donna asks. “These guards really are top shelf,” she mutters, looking left and right again to check that the coast is still clear. Thirty minutes later. Which, it is.

_Really, did everyone just leave?_

But she’s right, Spencer realizes. There’s no way they could’ve just waltzed in unseen in the middle of the day. Which means they had to already have been in here.

_OH MY GOD._

“I can't...,” Spencer says, starting to pace. “They were under my bed. UNDER. MY. BED. I’d bet you anything! They were hiding under your goddamn invisible blanket thing. I bet Katniss left it there when she ran off with Mistress Berry. They were just WAITING.”

It'll take a hundred showers to wash away this feeling. Maybe two hundred.

“No,” Aphasia disagrees condescendingly, “After Katniss left, I took it back. I’ve had it ever since. I had it that day you almost blew my cover --” Her disdain is quite clear -- “and then I gave it to Quinn and she gave it back.”

_Yes, let's please talk more about when my serial killer non-girlfriend watched me beg to get banged by her equally murderous sister clone._

Spencer sighs heavily and runs her hands through her hair again, then holds the back of her neck, elbows forward, and closes her eyes. “Fine. I don't know how they came in. But that web still wasn’t me.” She's growing quite tired of admitting defeat. Her mind's been turning faster than a hamster wheel since the moment they woke up, and she just wants all of this to be over already. None of this should be happening to them. To her. “You wouldn't happen to have any Advil in there, would you?” she asks weakly.

Maybe Aphasia's warming up to her, because she says gently, “Yeah, I gotchu,” and starts digging again.

The tension of the moment eases slightly with that, as light conversation builds over the background noise of Aphasia's rummaging. Lucy turns to Faith and compliments her knife, asking questions about its origin and specifications, and Mack joins in with some knowledge from Knives class. The subject then turns to the crossbow, which they seem to collectively know much less about. Donna seems to want no part of the conversation, growing ever more antsy in the back of the group, and, if Spencer had more energy to spare, she'd gladly explain that Umbridge isn't exactly someone worth hurrying for. Crazy frog-lady can wait. Especially if it means choosing between her and Qu--

Suddenly, something flies across the room and hits the back wall, and Aphasia jumps down to the floor screaming, “OH MY FUCK! OH MY FUCK!”

Everyone jumps back, immediately shutting the hell up to see what's going on. It takes a moment to register what they're looking at.

“OH MY FUCKING FUCK. FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCK.” Aphasia’s bouncing back and forth from one foot to the other with each word she screams.

Sitting harmlessly in the corner of the floor is a mess of dark string mixed with yellow. A small section of towel, maybe a few inches across, with severely frayed ends, tangled up with a section of blue fabric with half a gold moon on it – also massively unraveled at the edges. There's barely anything left of either item.

But there must be at least five or six spiders clinging to various strings in the jumble.

“FUCKING IN MY BED,” Aphasia's still yelling. “FUCKING SPIDERS IN MY BED. MOTHERFUCKING SPIDERS IN MY MOTHERFUCKING BED.”

As Spencer, Donna, Mack, and Faith each gasp or scream and curse in rapid succession, Lucy simply stands and watches them all freak out like idiots. Mack fires the crossbow right at the jumble without hesitation. The arrow hits the wall several feet above, bounces back and falls harmlessly onto the floor beside the pile. The end of the arrow lands near enough to one of the spiders to warrant a reaction, but there is none.

Spencer's heart is pounding adrenaline through her body in total fight-or-flight mode. She's the first to say, “I think they're dead,” but nobody's brave – or stupid – enough to get anywhere close to check.

“The poor dears!” Lucy cries.

_Nevermind._

She runs forward and squats down, mindful not to step on any as she approaches. Lucy picks up the nearest one with her finger and thumb, holding it up and examining it, turning it over from all angles. It's definitely the same breed Spencer saw two nights ago, the large black kind with the blue symbols, but it's clear Lucy's seeing it for the first time. “Such an exquisite animal. I wish I could've known them.”

Donna gapes, but Faith waves her off dismissively.

“They're beautiful,” Lucy says wistfully, looking back at the group. “So perfectly designed. Such expert--”

“YES, BUT ARE THEY DEAD,” Spencer interrupts.

Lucy's eyes harden at the question, and she stands up, simply saying “Yes,” before crossing back to take her original spot.

They all take a collective breath and keep staring at the pile. It’s a far cry from the full army that came after Faith – just a small battalion – and it may not be about to attack them, but it's still quite terrifying. In the stillness, Spencer can see the thick rows of hair on their back legs and the sharpness of the fangs protruding from their mouths. These are not things she ever wanted to see.

“Found your blanket,” Faith offers with a shrug, trying to lighten the mood.

“What's left of it,” Spencer adds. It's true – if it'd been large enough to cover a whole person before, there wasn't enough left now to cover a shoe.

The only solace in this situation is that the invisibility blanket is all but shredded, so the spiders can’t hide anymore. The downside, of course, is it means _they_ can’t, either. Spencer has to assume the spiders got desperate enough for thread that they destroyed their best weapon. Everyone’s best weapon.

“So...?” Donna asks. “They just...died? Starved to death?”

“They got crushed by all that junk you have in there,” Mack says.

“Then, THANK GOD FOR MY JUNK!” Aphasia yells, getting in Mack’s face with arms out. She looks ready to fight, and she’s not the only one.

Spencer's _enraged_.

“There was a group of spiders LIVING in YOUR BED?” She turns to look at Aphasia, now accusing her of some seriously high-level negligence. “THE WHOLE TIME?”

Aphasia’s having none of her shit today and steps right up with a finger in Spencer’s face. “OH, YOU BEST BACK OFF, BIG SLUT SKIPPER.”

“I was sleeping RIGHT HERE for a MONTH,” Spencer fires back, “and YOU, with your flea market of SHIT. You don’t even keep a fucking INVENTORY to know there were KILLER SPIDERS LIVING IN YOUR BLACK HOLE OF A…”

Spencer freezes, zoning out instantly as her mind connects the dots.

“OHHHH YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT MY HOLE NOW, IS THAT IT, YOU FUCKIN SKANK?” Aphasia’s spitting high-pitched venom, oblivious that she’s now alone in this conversation. “YOU WANNA GET IN MY BLACK HOLE, YOU BIGASS HO? YEAH I BET YOU DO. WELL, IT’S OFF LIMITS.”

But Spencer’s not hearing a word of this. Her mind is down the hall, flipping through pages in Jenny Schecter’s diary.

**_BLACK HOLE_ **

The web message. Beth knew the entire time. She knew the enemy was right overhead, and she was trying to warn Jenny. They were right here all along, for god knows how long. Every hour of every day Spencer slept in this bed. They could’ve crawled out and eaten her while she slept. Maybe that’s why Beth left. She couldn’t save Spencer, but maybe she was saving herself.

Spencer crumples down into a ball, wrapping her hands around her legs, and screams into her knees.

“YEAH YOU BEST FEAR MY BLACK HOLE,” Aphasia screams, leaning over Spencer’s head. “SIT YOUR SORRY ASS ON THAT FLOOR, BITCH. Don’t you come at me like that again. I will FUCK YOU UP. Shiiiit.” She settles to a calm, pumping her body once more at Spencer to assert her dominance, then leans against the bed frame to recenter herself.

Spencer barely hears a word Aphasia says. She’s too stunned and numb with fear over the reality of her time in this room. The quiet hangs for a moment between them, sitting awkwardly between the onlookers, and nobody knows what to say.

Then, out of nowhere, Aphasia jumps up on the frame of Spencer's old bed, lifts the edge of her mattress, and leans over into the dark abyss. “QUINN?!” she screams quite loudly. “ARE YOU IN THERE?!”

The others look up at this, including Spencer. The absurdity of Aphasia’s question seems to have dissipated any anger left hanging in the room. Spencer asks incredulously, “How deep IS that thing?”

When no response comes from below, Aphasia climbs back down and shrugs. “Deep enough.”

Spencer rises now, fueled as ever to get her goddamn non-girlfriend back. Her skin is on fire, sweat mixed with paper cuts from the crumpled form still in her jumpsuit. But even more than that, every inch of her is _crawling,_ just thinking about those eight-legged freaks lying in wait. Waiting to kill Jenny. Waiting to fuck with her – _They must've overheard me discussing my dream. They spelled out the message about killing Jenny just to mess with me. They wanted me to lose my mind in here. Those little shits_ …

Waiting for Spencer to break.

Waiting to take Quinn away.

Well. Waiting time is _over._

“I WANT TO KILL THESE FUCKING SPIDERS DEAD RIGHT NOW,” Spencer announces, standing back up.

“I GOT IT,” Mack shouts. In a panic, she starts to load up another arrow, quite clumsily, but Spencer holds her hand out.

“NO CROSSBOW. I mean the ones who took Quinn,” Spencer says, very clearly. “The ones we're going after right now who are not already dead. We're going to kill _them_.”

“Haven’t you done enough already?” Lucy asks.

But Spencer immediately spits back, “NO. I HAVEN’T.” She storms over to the string pile and jumps, landing with both feet on one of the spider carcasses in a firm _stomp_. She then repeats the measure some ten more times on the others, just for good measure, grunting angrily as she goes, “Fuck! You! Fuck! You!”

Breathing hard as she comes to a stop, Spencer pushes the hair back out of her face and says, “See? Much better.”

“That was entirely unnecessary,” Lucy disagrees.

“What is that?” Mack asks, looking down at the floor near Spencer's feet. In all her jumping, one of the pink balls of paper fell out of her pant leg.

Spencer sees it and says, “Nothing,” then turns to face the back of the cell for privacy. Unzipping her uniform, she pulls all the pink bits out from around her legs, angrily throwing them into the pile of death. Her body is instantly relieved to not be scratched incessantly anymore. “Ugh, _THERE._ Okay. Now we can go.”

But Mack's still confused, so Lucy takes it upon herself to answer the question. “Those papers are from the office.” With a dramatic pause, Lucy then adds, “It’s what Vee _didn’t_ get from Spencer.”

_Oh, thanks so fucking much for that._

Aphasia turns and steps toward Spencer with the devil in her eye. _“Vee?”_

“It's nothing,” Spencer says, immediately trying to diffuse the situation, as she remembers all too late what’s on the paper and just who she’s talking to.

“Nothing?” Aphasia isn't buying that at all. “Then what the hell _did_ she get? Because those look like capture forms, and I know you wouldn’t be STUPID enough to give a hellraising slime sack like VEE _anything_ related to someone who has been CAPTURED.” Her voice is rising with every word, temper blazing hot in her eyes.

Spencer starts to wonder if she could toss Aphasia up into the black hole with a quick power lift move. Who knows what she might land on, or if she could ever get back out. It would surely be better than having the rest of this conversation.

“I GAVE HER NOTHING,” Spencer shouts back.

“Uh, you threw one of those papers right at her,” says Faith. “We all saw you.”

Spencer turns in disbelief and spits, “Whose side are you on?!”

“She had my knife,” Faith says matter-of-factly, pointing it back at Aphasia.

Spencer gawks. _“I sat on your face!”_

“Wait, for real?” Mack asks.

“You know,” Donna says awkwardly, “I think I really should be going. It’s getting late...somewhere.”

But all eyes are Aphasia, because right now, Spencer is her entire world, and Aphasia wants to burn the world down.

She reaches down into the hole and rummages around, not breaking eye contact with Spencer, then pulls out a silver contraption. It’s a staple gun.

_Oh my god._

Aphasia steps toward Spencer, staple gun in hand, and starts slowly moving to the rear of the cell. “I told you,” she says, “not to trust her. I _told_ you. And what do you do? You raging, stupid-ass fuckbucket. You give the Devil information on MY girl.” Aphasia emphasizes each word with the tool, pressing it dangerously close to Spencer’s face.

She’s going to rearrange Spencer like a Picasso. She’s going to make her pay.

Spencer’s got her back against the wall now. She’s on the verge of crying for the second time in half an hour, and everything is horrible, and she’s going to die like this, right here in this cell, just like she predicted months ago.

“I didn’t! It was just one piece of paper, I swear! There were A HUNDRED THINGS in that file, and I only gave her one, but it was some junk form with nothing important! I had to trade it for information on Quinn so I could get her back! She said she knew things!”

“Oh really?” Another wave of the device in her face. “You THINK it was nothing, but you don’t really know, do you? What glorious things did the devil woman tell you, huh? Did she lean over and reveal Quinn’s location with her mystical asshole? Because everything that woman says is SHIT.” Aphasia pulls the trigger, shooting a staple right past Spencer’s ear with a loud _cah-ching!_ It bounces off the back wall onto the floor, and Spencer can barely see out of the corner of her eye, it’s one of the giant industrial staples, nearly an inch long.

Yep, she’s definitely going to die.

“She knew things, okay?! Everything she told me was stuff Quinn already said. It wasn’t bullshit!” This was also not entirely true, but Spencer really doesn’t want to hash out the whole serial killer thing again.

“And yet you gave her the paper anyway. For all of this old information. You must be a real fucking dumbass, after all.” Aphasia holds the staple gun up against Spencer’s forehead, right between the eyes.

“You’re right,” Spencer concedes. “I’m very stupid. I’m very sorry. Please don’t hurt me. I swear I was just trying to help Quinn. I’m so sorry.”

Aphasia braces her left forearm across Spencer’s collarbone to pin her to the wall and tilts the staple gun so it’s pressed under her chin. It feels very much like a regular gun, no matter how hard Spencer tries to tell herself it isn’t strong enough to kill her.

Probably.

“Do you even know why she asked you for that shit? Do you?” Aphasia pushes the end hard into the dimple of Spencer’s chin with those last two words. “She doesn’t give a shit about Hermione. Not like I do. Not like I _thought_ you did. She’s trying to get to _me_. But you don’t seem to fucking get that, so let me explain it to you. She wants all my shit. Okay? She knows about my blanket, she knows about all my stuff, and she wants to run this place. Because that’s what she does. She runs over people. But at least I got the tits to say no to her, which is more than I can say for you.”

Spencer squirms uncomfortably under the force of Aphasia’s arm, not necessarily trying to get away, just trying to breathe. The fear and adrenaline has her chest heaving for air, but all she’s taking in is contempt and, soon, one-inch staples.

“See, you don’t get it because nobody loves you,” Aphasia continues matter-of-factly, and the words hit Spencer like a brick. “But me and Hermione, that’s real. I love her. I do. She’s my one fucking weakness. So Vee wants to turn her against me. Or maybe try to use her to bring shit in like she does for me, I don’t know. I don’t _wanna_ know. Maybe she’s just trying to take her out so I won’t have nothing left to live for.” Aphasia stumbles over those last few words a bit, and Spencer’s never seen her so scared and vulnerable. It’s deeply moving and equally terrifying. “Whatever she wants, it ain’t good. I know that. So, I’m not gonna let that happen.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” Spencer wheezes out her clenched teeth as trails of saliva leak onto the staple gun. She can’t move her jaw, and she can’t shake the feeling that whenever Aphasia’s done with her lecture, Spencer’s jaw is going to be shut more permanently.

“You’re fucking right, you’re sorry. And now,” Aphasia says, taking a deep breath, “you’re gonna go and save Quinn so this won’t all be in veins.” Spencer bites back the urge to correct her; it’s probably for the best she’s unable to speak. The cold metal jams harder into her skin, and Spencer is sure she can feel the pointed edges of the loaded staple desperately waiting to break ground. “And I’m going to stay here and piece this shit back together so I can figure out just how much trouble your fucknado has brought into my life.”

Spencer whimpers once more, tears mixing with the drool and snot and probable blood as she sniffles hard, nodding as best she can. When Aphasia pushes once more against her chest with a shove, releasing her, Spencer stays frozen in place for a moment, just watching to see if it’s truly safe for her to leave. She never wanted to be out of this cell as badly as she does right now.

Aphasia’s on her hands and knees, picking up the pink paper bits and trying to assemble them like a jigsaw puzzle. When she finds two that fit, she tries stapling them together, not particularly successfully. Spencer find it hard to believe that she doesn’t at least have some scotch tape in there. Or duct tape. Or superglue. Or even stud earrings from her DIY Piercings class. But she’s not about to say anything. Spencer’s fairly certain she just made an enemy for life.

As her pulse starts to settle along with her breathing, the full room comes back into her awareness. Lucy, Mack, Faith, and Donna are still standing there, processing the scene that unfolded before them. Spencer wipes at her face with her hands, grateful there aren’t mirrors in here. If she can’t see how disgusting she looks, she can pretend the others don’t see it, either.

“So, this has been great and all,” Faith says, “but we’re losing daylight here. If we’re going, we need to _go_.”

“I really want to shoot someth--” Mack says, then accidentally fires an arrow into her mattress.

Aphasia’s got the last of the pieces assembled (fortunately, they weren’t any smaller than eighths) and laid out beside the toilet. She seems to have abandoned the stapling idea, thankfully, and appears to not be too bothered by the contents of the form. “Alright. Nothing here Vee won’t already know. Guess you got _real lucky_ this time.” She’s talking to Spencer but doesn’t look at her, just gathers the pieces and heads back to her bed. Placing them down in the storage hold under her mattress, she starts to climb back up to lie down, but Lucy interrupts in protest, holding out one hand.

“Excuse me, I’ve been waiting very patiently for my turn.”

“Seriously?” Aphasia turns to her, looking much more tired than she did just ten minutes ago. She reaches in deep and says, “This old thing?” then maneuvers a large, rusty chainsaw through the bars. It’s absolutely covered in dried blood and what looks to be...gems?

Spencer’s eyes go as wide as BSM patties.

_Oh my god, she Bedazzled her murder weapon._

“Hi, baby!” Lucy beams, gently taking the machine from Aphasia with two hands.

Spencer’s eyes are about to pop out of her head. “YOU HAD THAT? RIGHT ABOVE MY HEAD? THE WHOLE TIME I WAS HERE?” She knows she shouldn’t berate the girl who just tortured her, but she’s well fucking past her limit and just can’t take this anymore.

Aphasia glares at her tersely and says, “She likes to garden and shit. Don’t hate.” This no-nonsense arms dealer is having none of Spencer’s shit today.

But Spencer just watches in horror as Lucy Fabray looks her long, lost chainsaw up and down, smiling ear to ear, reunited at last with the source of all her evil powers. She’s downright _glowing_.

It’s the most terrifying thing Spencer has seen in her entire life. She backs away toward the door, eager to put some space between herself and the Texas massacre waiting to happen.

“I’ll also need --” Lucy starts, but Aphasia hands her a small gas can without even looking up. “Thank you.”

Faith leans over to Spencer and says, “Can’t wait to see what she’s saving for herself.”

Aphasia overhears and looks over, “New York Times crossword puzzle, that’s what.”

Spencer gawks at her. “You’re not coming?”

Aphasia returns the expression and hums, _“Nn nn,_ I ain’t going nowhere,” like they’re insane for not doing the same.

“Quinn’s _missing_ but you’re gonna do a goddamn crossword.”

“You bet I am,” Aphasia replies with attitude. “My ass is staying right here on this mattress.” Her volume rises with each word as she says, “Because that’s where I keep _THE WEAPONS_.” She exhales loudly and mutters to herself, “Everybody _always_ tryin’ to steal my shit!” After a little more digging, she pulls out a carton of Marlboro Lights and reaches in to grab a single pack, then holds it out to Spencer.

With a look of confusion, she says, “Uh, I’m good, thanks.”

“They’re for Quinn,” Aphasia says, like she’s a fucking dumbass.

_Right._

Faith leans over to Spencer and watches the scene with her. “Guess the Wizard doesn’t have anything for you, huh, Dorothy? I mean, other than the promise of facial reconstruction.”

_Oh, right. Last but not least._

Not that Aphasia’s going to be so kind as to bestow a gift upon her after what she’s done. Still, there’s always the remote possibility there’s something at the bottom of the barrel that a lowly traitor like Spencer might receive. She can hardly believe Aphasia has all this shit in the first place, but she also won’t buy that all that’s left is Halloween candy and multicolored hygiene products. _(“Not Wal-Mart,” my ass.)_  But what other dangerous items could possibly be in there? An ax? A baseball bat? The absolute last thing she wants to see on a spaceship is a gun. One stray bullet and they’re all sucked out through the hole in seconds.

She shudders.

“At least give the girl a drink,” Faith says. “I heard you’ve got a gallon of Starbuck’s moonshine stashed away for a rainy day.”

“Twenty-nine,” Aphasia corrects her, “and not a single drop for traitors.”

“You have _twenty-nine gallons_ of vodka?” Spencer can’t help herself.

“IT’S IMPORTANT. Not that you need to know why.” Aphasia keeps rummaging around for something she might be willing to part with. “You’d just go run your mouth to Vee.”

She earned that one. But just the one. “Never again,” Spencer says. “I promise. You can trust me.”

“Mmhmm,” Aphasia hums as she pulls out a handful of tangled plastic coat hangers and tosses them aside.

“Too bad there’s no croquet mallet in there,” Mack says, peering through the crosshairs of her new toy again as she aims it at Spencer’s head.

“Whoa!” Spencer quickly darts out of Mack’s line of sight and scoffs.

_Don’t I wish I had a mallet right now, you skank bitch._

“Why the hell would I have a croquet mallet?” she asks Mack irritably. “Here, try this.” Aphasia pulls a long wooden handle out with both hands, clanging loudly as it goes, and almost falls off the bed with the weight as it’s freed from the clutter. “I still hate you,” she says to Spencer, withholding it for a moment. “I’m doing this for Quinn.”

“Got it,” Spencer says. Things have most definitely turned around, and she holds out her hands nervously, hoping Aphasia will give her the weapon, not use it on her skull. The gesture of good faith falls heavily into Spencer’s grasp, and she tries not to grin too largely, as she’s still in the doghouse here. But she kind of can’t help it.

Because it’s a sledgehammer.

_This’ll do just fine._


	43. The Doctors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

“This way.”

The entourage starts down the corridor, and now there’s no getting around the hollering and cheers of the other inmates. Who can blame them, really? Spencer, Lucy, Mack, and Faith look like they’re heading into a zombie apocalypse, armed to the nines, with Donna bringing up the rear, wielding sarcasm and attitude.

As they reach the end of the cell block, they silently take hold of the wheel on the vault door. It’s hard to turn but unlocked. God only knows what’s on the other side, but they can’t stay in here forever. Faith pulls it open in one smooth motion as the others stand with weapons at the ready, but there’s no one there, just an empty T-intersection. Taking a step forward, Spencer holds up her hand to stop the group. She hears footsteps coming from around the corner, most likely a guard. _About time_ , she thinks. Spencer’s never heard a Code Pink before -- or any code other than red, for that matter -- but it’s still really strange that they’ve been left unattended for so long.

She points in the direction of the noise to inform the others. It’s probably Buffy, so Spencer makes a staking motion with her hand.

“Stab her?” Faith whispers, reaching for her knife.

Spencer starts to look at her with an expression of, _Do you seriously think that’s what I meant?_  but Lucy steps in.

“I got this,” she says calmly, and pulls the crank cord effortlessly, like she’s done it a hundred times. The chainsaw roars to life, and instantly the group jumps, startled. It’s deafeningly loud, and the echo of the sound has nowhere else to go.

“TURN THAT OFF!” Spencer yells, but it’s no use. They’ll be attracting every guard and staff member on the ship now, and there’s no going back. Their secret’s out. This covert mission is over before it started.

_I’m so sorry, Quinn…_

Spencer ducks out of the way -- one hand gripping the sledgehammer, the other over her ear -- as Lucy steps forward. Right as she reaches the intersection, Boomer turns the corner, and before Spencer can even react, Lucy’s run the saw diagonally through Boomer’s body from shoulder to hip in one swift motion.

Donna and Spencer scream.

The guard falls to the floor in two distinct halves, blood pouring all over the floor and quickly nearing Spencer’s shoes. When she dares to look, Spencer sees Lucy’s face and front are covered in an even coat of red spray, yet she doesn’t even seem to notice, or care.

Lucy turns the machine off again, and the chain slows to a stop in a dull sputter. Once it’s fallen silent, she looks to Spencer and smiles like she couldn’t be prouder of herself.

_Holy. Fucking. Shit._

Spencer can only stare, frozen and stunned at what she’s just witnessed. She’ll never be able to unsee this. The pile of intestines on the floor is going to haunt her dreams. But right now, there’s a more pressing point, and her body is trembling with anger. _“SHE KNEW WHERE QUINN WAS_ ,” Spencer shouts. _“YOU JUST MURDERED OUR ONLY LEAD.”_

Lucy blinks, either in confusion or at a stray drop of blood in her eyelashes. “You said the _spiders_ took her. So, it doesn’t matter where Boomer put her. If the guards knew where Quinn was, they’d be walking her back to her cell. No alert code.”

 _She’s right_ , Spencer thinks, but it still seems like unnecessary, gratuitous violence. But then, what did she expect when she went to Aphasia in the first place? This was all Spencer’s idea. She may have told herself the weapons were for self-defense, or for killing the spiders, but it’s not like this was going to be easy, or bloodless. Spencer had no shortage of contempt for Boomer, but that was a horrible way to go out. She tries to focus on the upside, that it’s one less guard to bring them down. One less person between them and Quinn.

_Better them than us, I guess._

“Let’s keep moving,” Spencer finally says, and takes the first steps away from the horror movie scene.

“Clean up in aisle five,” Faith says as she and Mack carefully step around the ever-growing puddle on the floor, then over Boomer’s cold, pale head.

Donna says to Spencer, “I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess why Captain Psycho’s in lock-up.”

Spencer pulls herself out of the daze. “What gave it away?” She tiptoes around and over Boomer’s leg and joins the others as Donna follows.

Faith looks both ways at the intersection. “What now?”

“Left. Sue’s that way,” Spencer says, pointing to the right. She takes the lead again but instantly feels uneasy. “Up here,” she says, redirecting Mack to come walk beside her so Spencer no longer has a crossbow pointed right at her back.

The two of them lead the other three down the long, curved hallway. It’s narrow, and there aren’t any doors, so there’s literally nowhere to hide. While it’s not too brightly lit, they’re in plain sight, and any encounter will surely end in more bloodshed. Spencer can only hope everyone’s safely tucked away in their offices with nowhere else to be.

Or maybe they’re looking for Quinn, too.

Spencer wonders what code they’d signal if she, herself, went missing.

Or if anyone would even care.

Would Quinn have gone looking for her?

Spencer’s sure her new cellmates wouldn’t blink an eye if she’d been the one taken away. It’s disheartening, but it’s hard to expect too much from people like this. They’re fighting here beside her -- even if it’s for Quinn, not her -- and that’s as much as she can ask for right now.

The fact is, right now, it’s what she needs the most.

“It’s just up ahead, past the Infirmary.” The intake hall, as Spencer likes to think of this, has the rooms where she was interrogated her first day, given a uniform, and inspected by Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins. All the medical rooms are on the west side of the ship, while the administrative rooms are on the east.

Suddenly, Mack says, “Whoa!” at the foot sticking out of the entryway to the wide-open Infirmary door.

The doctor’s dead. One of them, anyway. Spencer’s certain the woman had full arms and legs at one point, though she is certainly without all four of them now.

“The spiders did that?” Faith asks, shocked to see what damage the tiny monsters they’re hunting are capable of.

Lucy just nods silently, looking at solid evidence of how her once precious pets have evolved into gruesome murderers.

_Like mother, like..._

They stand there for a quiet moment, taking in the horror of what was done to this woman. “I liked that one,” Spencer says sadly. She wonders if she’s the only one picturing this happening to Quinn.

“What now?” Mack asks, turning to Spencer.

“We keep going.”

Another hundred feet and they finally reach the wooden door on the right with the brass plate promising one _Dr. Dolores Umbridge_ inside.

Mack doesn’t bother to knock, just pushes the cracked door open and then jumps back.

Dr. Umbridge is in her purple throne. Or, at least, what almost surely used to be Dr. Umbridge, before half of her face was eaten. What’s left is on the desk in a pool of blood, hunched over. Her body is half-wrapped in the same yellow thread Spencer saw when the spiders came for Faith, but it looks like they couldn’t complete the job.

“Oh, nasty!” Mack says, holding a hand over her nose.

“Please tell me that’s not…” Donna starts, glancing at Spencer.

“Yeah. That’s Dolores. Or what’s left of her.”

 _“Shit!”_  Donna says, turning away in anger.

“So, what now?” Mack says.

“I don’t know!” Spencer shouts. “I need to think.”

As the body count keeps piling up, she’s feeling more and more hopeless, more and more trapped. It’s getting claustrophobic, knowing there’s no way out, and the spiders are going after anyone with authority in this place.

What a great time for Spencer to be in charge.

The office smells absolutely horrible. The heat from the blazing fire adds a thickness to the pungent odor sitting around them. The dancing light reflects off the shimmering threads pinned to the wall above Umbridge’s mutilated body, covering her collection of floral kitten plates.

**_YOUR NEXT!_ **

Spencer wonders, for a millisecond, if it would’ve killed their creators to do a quick grammar lesson before sending them off to threaten people.

 _“Who_ ’s next?” asks Faith, turning to Spencer. “Us? Was this for Quinn?”

“I don’t think so,” says Spencer, looking at the web curiously. “She wasn’t one of her patients.”

“Everyone check the floor,” Mack says, pointing the crossbow down like she’s going to harpoon one of the wild beasts at extreme close range. “They might still be in here.”

“Okay,” Faith starts, looking around the room like it’s some unfamiliar alien universe. “What the _hell_ was this woman smoking?”

Spencer’s become somewhat accustomed to the lace and ornamentation of the room but remembers quite vividly her first time in here. It’s bizarre and disorienting; the pink walls, alone, were enough to make her feel like she’d stepped outside reality. She’s a bit used to it now, even though it’s been awhile since she was last here.

_Wait…_

“How long do you think she’s been like this?” Spencer asks the group. The blood seems dry in places, and the corpse has clearly begun rotting.

“Hell if I know,” Mack offers.

“Days,” says Lucy, knowingly.

“So, we have no idea who that message is for, then. It’s been there long enough, anyone could’ve seen it,” Spencer says. And then, it all makes sense. “You guys, what if _this_ was the Code Pink? What if someone came in here, found her like this, and went to Sue? And now the guards are running all over trying to figure out what’s going on.”

“Seems legit,” Faith says, still looking around with one arched eyebrow.

Spencer’s heart sinks a bit at the realization that the alert wasn’t about Quinn at all. What if the guards don’t even know she’s missing? What if nobody else is looking for her, someone who could’ve had a head start on them and saved her by now? Spencer could live with not being the hero here, she just wants Quinn safe.

“This is clearly some kind of message, but why her?” Spencer asks herself. “It looks like they tried to haul her away, but maybe even with the gravity out, they couldn’t manage it. So, they leave her here and just eat what they can? It doesn’t fit the pattern.”

“Well, she was in the know, right?” Faith says. “She called Martina McFly for help” -- a gesture to Donna -- “so maybe they offed her before she could spill the beans.”

“Oh, so it’s _my_ fault,” Donna snaps. “Cheers.”

“This place is rank. I’m out.” Mack takes a step toward the door.

“No,” Spencer says with authority, “there has to be a reason they came after her. We take five minutes now and look. Quinn’s life might depend on it. “

“In five minutes, Quinn could be dead,” Lucy says.

“Then do you have any better ideas?” Spencer snaps. “Because right now, it looks like shit is getting pretty fucking serious.” She points to the web, then drops her arm with a sigh and runs her hand through her hair. “We don’t even know how long they’ve had her.”

“‘G’s gotta be a gym, right?” Faith says, like it’s obvious. “So, we search one by one til we find her. We split up, cover twice the ground.”

But Spencer shakes her head. “No way, it’s too dangerous. We have to stick together. We don’t have any way to communicate with each other. If one of the groups got attacked, who’s to say the others would be able to handle all these fuckers on their own?”

“I’m not hurting a hair on their precious little heads,” Lucy restates, still gripping the bloody chainsaw with both hands.

“So, you, me, and blondie hit the gyms,” Mack says to Faith, “while these two” -- Spencer and Donna -- “stay here playing detective.” She looks to Lucy, “Take out the guards, we’ll do the rest.”

“NO,” Spencer shouts. “Give me a goddamn minute!”

“ONE. Then we’re outta here.”

Spencer starts digging through the desk before Mack can object further. Umbridge was very tidy, so there isn’t much to see. No giant piles or large filing cabinets like in Sue’s office. The desk drawers are mostly empty, containing only basic supplies like pens, stamps, and ink pads. It doesn’t look like Dr. Umbridge did very much actual doctoring.

The only papers on the desk, buried under a vastly outdated British newspaper, are four file folders -- Kara Thrace _(whoever that is)_ , Santana Lopez, Spencer herself, and Ellen Ripley.

She immediately grabs her own file and opens it. She’s seen it before, back when Aphasia waved it front of face like a piece of candy. It’s covered in the giant _CONFIDENTIAL_ stamps, but now she finally has a chance to see what’s so damn special. Spencer opens it carefully and is surprised to see it only contains three sheets of paper, one that seems to be a standard two-sided intake form and one for each of her cell transfers.

“Who’s that?” Lucy asks, recognizing it’s a prisoner folder.

“Me,” Spencer says softly. Her eyes are scanning through the intake form, desperate for some answers.

“We know _you_ didn’t do it,” Mack snaps impatiently. She looks to Faith and says, “Let’s go.”

“HANG ON,” Spencer yells again. “This could be important.” It’s all there -- her name, address, date of birth, crimes convicted of, location of crime, length of sentence.

And there, under DATE OF INTAKE is a checkbox for Standard or Full Service (with the latter checked), with a line for INCARCERATION REQUEST SUBMITTED BY.

And clear as day, typed neatly, is the name “Hastings, Veronica.”

In an instant, Spencer’s world collapses around her. The rest of the page becomes a blur through her tears.

_She sent me here. It’s all her fault._

“Hello?!” Mack says, pounding her hand on the door three times. “Are we leaving?”

Spencer looks up suddenly, wiping at her eye with the back of her hand. She grabs the stack of files and heads for the door. “Yeah. We’re done here.”

If this is really what it means to be a Hastings, Spencer doesn’t want to be one anymore.


	44. Picture Imperfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer’s mind is a blur as they head back down the corridor. Thank god she knows the way to Sue’s office well, because all she can think right now is, _My own mother sent me to space prison._

She can’t understand why. She can’t understand how. Nothing makes sense anymore, not even remotely.

She’s in the middle of the pack -- Mack and Lucy in the front, Donna and Faith bringing up the rear. The hum of Lucy’s chainsaw drowns out the sound of their footsteps and spoken directions, and it provides a backdrop of noise for the thoughts clamoring in Spencer’s mind. She doesn’t care enough to tell her to turn it off. Besides, drawing the guards out doesn’t seem like such a bad idea now that she’s seen how capable Lucy is of...

The buzzing suddenly revs up to a higher pitch, which is enough to bring Spencer’s attention forward, where Lucy is swiftly slicing through another guard, horizontally this time, with no warning at all. The group stops and looks down at the bisected body and guts spilled all over the floor, and Mack vocalizes what Spencer’s thinking.

“Uh... _that’s_ Boomer.”

They all stare at the cold face, and there’s no mistaking it.

“But that’s impossible,” Spencer says. “She didn’t just put herself back together and come back to life.” A horrible thought crosses her mind. _“DID SHE?!”_   The only thing worse than space prison would be zombies in space prison.

“There’s no sign of the previous wound,” says Lucy.

_Uh, “wound” is one word for what you did to her, sure._

“So, what, she has a twin or something?” Donna says. “And they both just happen to be space prison guards?”

“Doesn’t seem likely,” Spencer agrees.

“Well, she’s definitely dead,” says Mack. “Come on.”

“Next time could we try interrogating one first?” Spencer says to Lucy, who ignores her, restarting the chainsaw. She leads them back down toward the T-intersection where they began. They meet _another_ Boomer who loses her head before Spencer even sees her coming.

“Jesus!” Spencer shouts, as she almost steps on the severed head. “How many of them are there?”

“Yeah, it’s like Attack of the Killer Clones” Faith offers, looking to Lucy, pointedly.

Spencer wonders if this whole mess just got a lot scarier.

When they reach the intersection, they see the sliced remains of the first guard, and Spencer checks what’s left of the nametag. Sure enough, it says Boomer, too. Three confirmed multiples. Spencer doesn’t know if that makes her feel better or worse. On the plus side, they’re not battling something immortal. But then, there could be a goddamn _army_ of Boomers, for all she knows. It certainly explained why Boomer always seemed to be the one on duty. _I guess they all just hated me, then,_ Spencer thinks. They would probably love to see her dead, and now they have their chance. Without knowing an exact head count, there could always be at least one more warm body coming after her.

Even with their weapons and violent histories, this band of volunteers is still just a group of trapped, scared people with no idea what they’re doing. How is Spencer supposed to get them out of this alive?

There’s at least one life she can save, even if it’s not her own.

Spencer turns to Donna and says, “Your ship’s straight down that way,” pointing down the cell block. “Thanks for all the help.”

Donna looks where Spencer pointed and then meets Spencer’s eyes. “I’m not leaving,” she says, determinedly.

“Dolores is dead,” Spencer replies. “We’re probably all going to die. You didn’t ask for any of this. You should go.”

“Look, I’m not going anywhere, Missy,” Donna says, “so we can stand here bickering or we can get on with saving your friend.”

Donna wants to fight for her. Spencer’s own mother wouldn’t fight for her, but this complete stranger will. Spencer steadies her emotions and takes a deep breath, then nods once. “Keep going, straight ahead, stay to the left. It’s past the Processing room,” she says, taking them into the opposite narrow hallway beyond the classrooms. It’s a mirror image of the hall to Umbridge’s office, and Spencer’s starting to picture the layout of this place in her mind now, letting it coalesce as they travel over this familiar territory.

The line of armed women files around the curve of the hallway, occasionally checking behind them as they go.

“It’s that door on the left,” Spencer says, pointing. The other four run on ahead, but the door is locked. Faith kicks it twice, and the lock gives as the door frame splinters. They barge in, weapons raised, while Spencer stands in the hall. The lights are flickering, and with all their noise, there could be a dozen spiders -- or Boomers-- approaching at any moment, and Spencer’d be dead before she knew it.

Maybe this is what her mother wanted.

For her to suffer and die, trapped and alone in space, stabbed or gutted or eaten by something horrible, something without remorse.

Right now, she’s almost feeling scared enough to let it happen. At least then she’d be free from this never-ending terror.

“It’s empty.” Faith peeks back around to notify Spencer, and it snaps her back to the scene. “What now?”

Spencer steps inside, and sure enough, there’s no sign of Sue. No body, no web, nothing out of place. In fact, the office is practically clean. The mountain of papers on the floor is gone, the wall of trophies is intact and orderly, and even the desk is free of clutter.

“Search it,” Spencer says. “There has to be something useful.”

“Look, I know where Gym 2 is,” says Mack. “Let’s just GO.”

“I know Gym 4,” says Lucy.

Spencer vaguely remembers that’s where Fisting class is, and she rolls her eyes.

“Gym 1’s next door to my Knives class,” Faith says. “3’s on that hall, too.”

“But what if she’s not even _in_ a gym?” Spencer counters. She turns to address the group. “I mean, yeah, I really hope she is, but what if it’s something else? We have to be open to the possibility that we’re wrong. This ship is huge. And it’s not like we got the nickel tour when we arrived.” She quickly rifles through some random papers but finds nothing of value.

“Yeah, we should just stay here and hope Quinn strolls on by, great plan,” Mack says angrily and knocks Sue’s name plate off the desk with the end of her crossbow.

“We need a schematic or a blueprint or _something_ that shows us the layout of the ship,” Spencer says. “We can’t just wander around aimlessly.”

Faith throws her arms out. “If we were out looking, we could’ve found her by now.” She’s clearly getting frustrated at the lack of action, too.

“We have some time!” Spencer says. “They ate Umbridge and the doctor, and not even completely. They have to be full for now, or whatever. It has to mean they don’t need to eat Quinn, not yet.”

Mack laughs. “If that’s what you want to tell yourself, then fine. Be my guest. It’s only her life at stake. No big.” She gets up in Spencer’s face now, pointing. “And this recon crap is a _fucking waste of time_.”

“So noted,” Spencer says dryly. “Now _look_.”

They stare at each other, neither wanting to back down, until Mack finally mutters, “Whatever,” and starts sifting absently through a drawer in Sue’s desk.

Everyone gets to work. Faith uses her knife to pry open the drawers of prisoner files. Donna’s looking behind the hanging frames on the wall for anything hidden, then checks the trophies to see if there’s something suspicious. Lucy stands guard at the door, armed and ready.

Spencer sits in a chair by the wall and places the stack of four files from Umbridge’s office on her lap. She carefully sifts them until hers is on the bottom, then starts rummaging through Kara Thrace’s file (Starbuck, it turns out). When there’s nothing of note, she moves on to Santana’s.

“Okay, I really don’t want to think about it, but are we _sure_ that Santana isn’t somehow...you know...behind this?” Spencer doesn’t see anything in the forms to suggest she is, but the whole eating-people thing is an obvious connection.

“She’s not here,” Lucy says, turning with a frown.

“I know, I mean, when she was.”

“No way.” Faith shakes her head as she fingers through the S-Z drawer. “She was all bark and no bite.”

Spencer flinches at the phrase. _Tell that to Quinn’s foot._ “So, it’s just a coincidence that the spiders eat people and _she_ eats people.”

“She what?” Donna turns with a start. “You know what? Never mind. Didn’t hear a thing!”

Faith looks up now, meeting Spencer’s eyes with sincerity. “Santannibal had nothing to do with this, okay? If you want to blame somebody for what happened to Quinn, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” She flips past the last folder and slams the door shut, reporting out, “Nothing.”

And Spencer realizes -- that’s part of what makes this situation so unbelievably frustrating. She doesn’t know who’s to blame. The scientists who created these hell beasts and are now long dead? Lucy, for asking for the spiders in the first place? Her mother, for sending her here? Sue and Umbridge, for not believing her when she was right all along?

Or maybe she should just blame herself, for letting Quinn get taken.

Everyone is guilty, and everyone is responsible. Nobody is getting out of this mess clean. It’ll be enough if they can get out of it alive.

There’s one more file left in her stack -- Ellen Ripley. She’s seen it before, the day she requested the transfer to Lucy’s cell, and the giant _DANGEROUS_ stamps on the cover make Spencer wonder what the hell this woman could’ve done. Santana’s file doesn’t even have that on it.

She opens the folder nervously, and there’s the standard intake form, but it looks like an older version. Much older, in fact, Spencer realizes -- the date on this is almost twenty years old.

“I think I found something,” Spencer says. “Look at this. Ellen Ripley, prisoner number 001.” Spencer looks up. “She’s been here _forever_.”

There’s a form for transfer to the Solitary unit, dated two years after the intake form. Behind that is a stack of what must be ten reports of violent behavior. Upon further inspection, each one of them reports assault on a fellow prisoner that resulted in death. Faith and Santana had mentioned this weeks ago, but Spencer hoped they were kidding.

They weren’t.

All the reports, sure enough, are dated December 25th and signed by Sue. They describe the routine release of Ellen Ripley for her _“shower, meal, and participation in traditional holiday events.”_  Every time, it ends in bloodshed. Spencer doesn’t recognize any of the names until the most recent forms for women named Kennedy, Carmilla, and Xena – just like her cellmates said. But even they were spooked, just by bringing up the subject. It’s as if Ripley’s victims are ghosts never spoken of again, probably out of fear of retaliation.

This woman sounds absolutely terrifying.

But how does this help them? There’s no connection to the spiders, or to Quinn. It’s sometime in May, by Spencer’s count, not anywhere near Christmas. Her cellmates talked about it once, but really, the only other time she’s even seen the word Christmas since she got here was when –

…when she read Jenny Schecter’s journal.

**_MARY CHRISTMAS_ **

Right before the message **_STOP HER_**.

“You guys…” Spencer begins, wide-eyed. “What if Ripley’s working _with_ the spiders?”

Mack ignores her and throws another handful of Sue’s stuff from the drawers onto the floor in a loud crash. She has absolutely destroyed this office in a matter of minutes.

“From Solitary?” asks Faith, prying open the next drawer of prisoner files. “No comprende.”

“I’ve been here a long time,” Lucy says, still facing out into the hallway. “Ripley’s been in Solitary as long as I can remember. She was there when I got here.”

_Meaning she was already locked up when the spiders first arrived, too._

_Damn._

“Alright.” Spencer drops the file back on the desk in surrender. “Let’s keep looking.”

“Maybe it’s just me,” Donna says, “but if someone killed somebody on Christmas, I wouldn’t let them out to do it again the next year.”

Spencer can’t help but agree.

There’s more clanging as Mack’s now throwing trophies out of the case onto the floor in a heap. Spencer swivels in the chair and props her feet up to think, now facing north, and she comes eye to eye with a square that’s a darker gray than the rest of the wall, like it’s been hidden from the light for years. She knows this spot -- it’s where the hideous Olivia Newton-John photo goes.

Spencer leaps out of the chair and sees some small, black paint stenciled on the wall.

_PLACE MAP HERE AND COVER_

“Oh my god,” Spencer says, “look.” The others crowd around her. “Well, now we know for sure Sue’s alive and she didn’t want anyone else to find her.”

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Mack curses, and picks up a trophy from the floor just to throw it loudly against the file cabinets. The sound echoes out loudly in the hallway. Anyone else alive on this half of the ship would surely hear it and come running.

Lucy turns around at the noise and says, “Thank you. I’m bored, and I’d like to kill something.”

“Look, there’s nothing here,” Faith says to Spencer. “I’m gonna check the gyms. You with me or not?”

Spencer’s out of time-outs. They need to get moving.

She takes a deep breath and says, “Let’s do this.” She leaves the file folders on Sue’s desk and grabs the sledgehammer, stepping carefully over the pile of Mack’s carnage to follow Lucy out the door.


	45. Circles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

“Oh shit.”

Two Boomers charge around the corner full speed, heading right for them.

“Run!” Donna shouts, taking off in the opposite direction to go further down the hall. Spencer’s right behind her, but she doesn’t know if anyone else is. She’s never been past Sue’s office and doesn’t know where this leads, but it’s away from the guards, so it’s the only option. In the distance, she hears the now familiar sound of the chainsaw revving and ripping bodies in half, and knows Lucy stood her ground. Spencer and Donna slow to a stop to catch their breath, realizing they’ve reached a cul de sac dead end.

Right in front of two doors marked Gyms 7 and 8.

_Eight?!_

“YOU GUYS!” Spencer shouts. Instantly she regrets it -- if Quinn is in there, Spencer just alerted the entire spider army of their presence. “Shit, hang on,” she says to Donna and starts running back.

“DON’T JUST LEAVE ME HERE!” Donna yells back. “We found the gyms!”

“STOP YELLING!” Spencer’s voice echoes loudly in the hall, and she curses herself again, running faster. She quickly catches up to the others and the fresh pile of body parts and says, “Two more gyms. This way.”

Spencer can hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears as they round the curved hallway to the home of Gyms 7 and 8.

“Nice of you to come join me. Still alive, thank you,” Donna quips. “Now what?”

If Quinn’s behind one of those doors, making the wrong choice now could have devastating consequences. Spencer’s seen how fast these fuckers can move. The rebel gang has lost the element of surprise (if they ever had it, really, with the chainsaw and all), so they simply have to be right. And fast.

“Eenie meenie?” asks Faith.

“Lucky seven,” Mack says, aiming her crossbow at the door.

“You mind covering us?” Spencer says to Lucy. She doesn’t want any more guards ambushing them from behind.

Lucy turns and faces the hallway corridor, poised and ready, but doesn’t respond otherwise.

“I’ll just wait here, then.” Donna starts, slowly walking backward. “Keep good old Lucy company.” She doesn’t seem very keen on the idea of being left alone with a chainsaw-wielding murderer, but Spencer agrees Donna will be safer out here than in there.

Faith and Mack are standing in front of the door, weapons at the ready.

“Kick it down,” Spencer says to Faith. “On three. One, two…”

The boom of the door slamming open echoes down the corridor as well as throughout the gym itself. It’s pitch black inside, and Spencer hadn’t considered how they’re going to get the lights on in a potentially spider-infested hell den.

“Ladies first,” Mack says to her nervously.

_How chivalrous._

“Quinn?” Spencer calls, sledgehammer poised and at the ready. Hearing no response other than the echo of her own voice, she steps carefully into the darkness. Suddenly, the memory of a dozen spiders crawling at her and into her bed that dark, horrible night takes over. Spencer stomps her feet rapidly, like she’s doing some kind of demented crazy dance, and she waves the sledgehammer around in the black to tear down any webs. “QUINN!” she yells again, stomping and flailing as hard as she can, screaming like a maniac. But then suddenly the lights come on, and she stops, standing in an otherwise empty gym that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. No webs, no spiders, no anything except some dusty exercise mats on the floor in rows and an old cassette boombox on a bench by the wall.

Plus one very, very embarrassed Spencer Hastings.

Faith’s hand drops from the light switch just inside the doorway as she stares awkwardly at Spencer. “Yeah, I don’t think she’s here…”

“Just being thorough.” Spencer tucks her proverbial tail between her legs and files out behind Faith and Mack. “All clear,” she says to Lucy and Donna, in a poor attempt to save face.

They reposition themselves in front of Gym 8’s door, and it booms just as loudly when Faith kicks it down. This time, Spencer calls to Quinn again, then tiptoes to the door, sneaks a hand inside as fast as she can, and flips the lights on.

This one’s set up with basketball hoops, much like a high school gym, and it’s clear that Quinn’s not there. What must be twenty foam and rubber balls of various sizes and colors are strewn all over the place. It’s much cleaner than Gym 7 and has clearly been used recently -- by people, not spiders.

Spencer sighs. She feels bad that a small part of her is relieved. She’s not yet emotionally prepared for a battle to the death, even after everything she’s already been through today.

“Two down,” Mack says, disappointed she still hasn’t gotten to shoot anything yet.

“Seems like,” Spencer says. “We know where 1 through 4 are. My guess is 5 and 6 are on the other side.”

“Other side of what?” Mack asks dismissively.

“The ship.” _Dumbass._ “If we are where I think we are. Come on -- I have an idea.”

Lucy revs up the chainsaw and takes the lead again as they retrace their steps. Spencer is far from feeling safe, but she does take some comfort in knowing they’ve just secured a part of the ship. The more unknown that becomes known, the more in control she’ll feel.

They round the corner, passing the hallway to the other four gyms, and Spencer slows down to cast a glance that way, just to see. It’s empty and quiet. Her gut’s telling her that Quinn’s over on the far side, that they’re not running right past her here, _again_ , but she’ll feel horrible if she’s wrong about that.

It’s not like she hasn’t been wrong here before.

With a shiver, she turns to continue back down the main hall, but something catches her eye. The metal door with the **PROCESSING** sign is open, and from this angle, she can see the familiar, giant window. The red velvet curtain is pulled back, revealing the beauty and horror of uncharted space. It looks different now somehow. More beautiful, perhaps, in contrast to the horrors she’s witnessed today. Or just less scary. And that chair…it’s where Sue grilled her on the first day in this hellhole. It’s where Spencer first realized where she is, back when she still thought her parents gave a shit about her. When she still thought there would be a way out.

It’s where she was sitting the moment everything changed.

“This what you wanted to show us?” Mack’s voice pulls Spencer out of her thoughts. “We movin’ or what?”

“Hang on,” Spencer says distantly and walks into the room. Everything beyond the thick glass is still; the stars are barely sparkling. But Spencer is mesmerized. It’s a breathtaking sight, so calm and peaceful and still. Even the asteroid is in the same place as before. Spencer steps past the table, setting her sledgehammer down, and takes a deep breath. As she walks toward the glass, the vastness fills more and more of her vision, and Spencer wants it to take her over. Not just to escape, but to float away. To escape the chaos in these walls and become one with the tranquility of space.

She reaches the window and places a hand on the glass. It’s cold, but not painfully so. She wonders how much material stands between her and the universe. It seems so thin, this precious line between life and death.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Faith says from the doorway.

Spencer knocks on the glass a few times and says, “It’s not gonna break.” She looks back out and finds the biggest celestial body she can, a distant red star, or maybe a planet. Would it be Mars? Are they even in the --

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

She’s screaming before she can process what she sees. It’s gigantic and right in front of her face, just out of nowhere. Instinctively, Spencer drops to the floor, hiding under the window, and covers her head with her arms. But she can still see the image burned into her memory. There’s gray and white and teeth -- _so many teeth_ \-- and fins -- _FINS_ – and _SO MANY_ _TEETH._

“Told you,” Faith mutters.

The others crowd the doorway to see what the commotion’s about. Faith moves forward to give the others room to join her.

The enormous beast floats out of sight, tail swooping back and forth and hitting the window once with a giant _thud_.

Spencer jumps and screams again. Her eyes are bulging out of her head. “THAT,” she pants, heaving breaths and pointing an arm up, “….THAT WAS A SHARK.”

“They’re such beautiful, majestic creatures,” Lucy says. “Don’t you think?”

_WHAT?!_

Donna mutters a quick “NO BLOODY THANK YOU” and goes back to the hallway.

The room falls quiet for a moment as no one really seems to know what to do next. Spencer’s frozen in fear and unable to think. Her brain has never felt more broken.

“Did you wanna come back over--” Faith gestures to the open space behind her, back by the door to the hallway. It looks like a safe enough distance. Should a thing possibly exist.

Spencer considers making a run for it. She slowly shifts to a squat and lifts herself up enough to peek over the edge of the glass. But then the shark swoops back past, having circled fully around, and Spencer ducks down again with a screaming gasp.

“It can’t see you,” Faith says, amused. “It’s one-way glass.”

Spencer doesn’t know why the others aren’t freaking out. “You’re sure?” Her voice trembles, as her whole body is shaking.

“Yeah. It can smell you, though.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Lucy says, almost condescendingly.

Spencer gawks, flails her arms toward the window, and makes a few high-pitched, incoherent noises.

“I can explain,” Lucy says with a friendly tone. “Sharks are large, carnivorous animals that –”

“I KNOW WHAT SHARKS ARE,” Spencer sputters, arms still wrapped around her knees. Why is she getting a nature lesson from the girl who’d never heard of bears? “BUT...IT’S...IN SPACE.”

Lucy’s brow furrows. “Where else would it be?”

“UM, IN THE OCEAN?”

“What’s ‘the ocean’?” Lucy asks.

Spencer closes her eyes and tries not to have a complete mental breakdown.

“Tons of water,” Faith says. “Like, everywhere.”

Lucy gasps in horror. “But they’d drown!”

Spencer stands and looks at Faith, more Done With Everything than ever. “Can we go now? I’d really like to go now.”

“Come on,” Faith says with a nod, and nudges Lucy out of the room so Spencer can exit.

Spencer grabs her sledgehammer and pauses, then quickly crosses the room and pulls the chain to close the velvet curtain. As the drapes move in a few inches at a time, the shark emerges once more from the darkness and heads right for her. The curtains close just as it passes her by, and Spencer knows that image is going to haunt her dreams for the next, well, _ever_.

She rejoins the team in the hallway and closes the door behind her. “It’s just circling the ship,” she informs them. This development is deeply, deeply upsetting. Spencer’s feeling a lot more claustrophobic now knowing they’re surrounded by actual space monsters.

“Yep,” Mack says, nonplussed. “Hopefully just the one.” She’s checking her crossbow, and all seems to be in working order.

“True,” says Lucy. “With all the fresh guards’ blood, I’d be surprised if there weren’t a dozen soon.”

“A DOZEN?” Spencer shouts, but nobody seems to care. “Where do they COME from?!”

Mack ignores the question and resumes their search for gyms 5 and 6. “That way now?” she gestures down the hall.

Spencer pounds her twenty-pound sledgehammer loudly on the floor. “Why is no one else the least bit alarmed that THERE ARE SHARKS IN SPACE?”

“I think I was better off not knowing that, yeah,” Donna agrees.

“Thank you,” says Spencer, loudly.

Mack looks at Spencer with a laugh, shaking her head. “Classic Shit Girl. Dumbass.” She starts walking, with Lucy and Donna following close behind.

Spencer stands in shock and watches them go. Then, she feels a finger drag down her spine, and Faith leans in to breathe against her ear, “It’s called _‘Shark Week,’_  Harvard,” with a grin. She takes off after the others, then turns around with a skip in her step to add, “You don’t know the Jaws music?”

“I THOUGHT THAT WAS A EUPHEMISM!” Spencer shouts. Then, with a quick glance behind to be sure they’re not followed, she runs to catch up. She can’t get away from the latest terror in Bizarro World quickly enough.

****************

They approach the familiar T-intersection with the all too familiar first Boomer corpse and keep moving. Spencer looks at the pool of blood and can’t stop thinking about the swarms of sharks hovering outside. She’s never felt more claustrophobic, not even when locked in a small cell with people who want her dead. But not ten steps beyond, she’s jerked back to reality when she hears Mack yell, “Shit!” behind her and the whizzing sound of a firing arrow.

Spencer turns, and there’s not one but _two_ Boomers there, one now with an arrow sticking out of her thigh. In a flash, Lucy crosses past Spencer and slices the un-arrowed Boomer in half from the crotch straight up through her skull. The symmetrical halves fall to the ground with a wet _schlopppp._

“JESUS!” Spencer shouts, but it’s lost over the sounds of the chainsaw and Faith repeatedly punching the other Boomer. Faith then draws her knife and guts the guard, twice for good measure, it seems, then slits her throat.

The guard collapses into the pool of blood created by her twin, and Spencer can’t believe just how gruesome this has become. She’s a nice girl from a nice family in a nice town. Okay, well. A once violent girl from a fucked-up family in a murder-ridden town. But this is going way over the line. Is this who she is now? Is this what they do?

Mack steps forward and takes aim with her crossbow, shooting the half-Boomer in the chest with a primal cry.

Spencer just stares. “She was DEAD.”

“She is now,” Mack huffs and walks off down the hall.

_Lord._

They reach the tomb of the doctor again, and Spencer stops in front of the mutilated corpse.

“What’s up?” Faith asks.

“Look at this, come on.” Spencer steps over the body and enters the small examination room. There on the wall is the familiar yet still creepy emblem of the ship. The _Uterius_ , in all its glory, conveniently providing an outline for their reference.

“Is that…um…” Donna starts, pointing vaguely with her finger to the picture, then to her abdomen.

“Yeah,” Spencer says. She starts placing her mental schema of the layout atop this framework, and it all lines up. “I think the cell block is this big middle part. The classrooms, too.” She tries to brush aside the fact that she’s pointing to a giant vagina. “And we were just here,” she says, indicating the round circle on the far right side. The ovary, if you will.

“So, it’s symmetrical. Two more gyms on the other side,” Faith says, getting it now.

“Just down the hall,” Spencer concurs. “I think we’re about here,” she moves her finger halfway along the tube on the left side. “It’s the furthest part of the ship from everyone. Probably the best place to hide someone away. If we didn’t even know these gyms existed, chances are no one else does.”

“S’where I’d set up camp,” Faith says.

“It also explains why all the people on this side of the ship are dead,” Spencer adds. “No witnesses.”

“Let’s go,” Mack says, and is the first to step back over the dead doctor and keep heading to the right.

They pass Umbridge’s office, and it’s quiet and unchanged. A little too quiet, Spencer thinks. Where _is_ everyone? Everyone Lucy hasn’t already killed, anyway. Sue and the other two doctors, that Becky girl who works for Sue...they have to be somewhere, right?

“Up here,” Lucy says as they reach the end of the hall.

Gyms 5 and 6.

“So, what’s behind door number three?” Faith says, approaching Gym 5. She silently gestures to the gang to assume their positions, then kicks it down.

“Quinn?” she calls, and Spencer’s right behind. “Quinn?”

She kicks the lights on, and yet again, nothing. This one seems to have old gymnastics equipment -- a beam, a vault, a marked off section of floor, but there’s a thick layer of dust that makes them nearly unrecognizable.

Along with the wispy remains of spider webs.

“I think we’re getting close,” Spencer says.

Mack nods to the last door on the end, Gym 6. “Let’s do it.”

“You ready?” Spencer says to Donna and Lucy, who are standing guard where the hall narrows, watching for more Boomers. They both nod.

She turns to Mack and Faith as they share a silent exchange. This is it.

Spencer raises the sledgehammer and flanks Faith’s right as Mack takes the left, crossbow at the ready. She counts down from three, and with the familiar echoing _boom_ , the door flies open.

“QUINN!” Spencer cries, running in and stomping on the ground again, flinging the hammer around. “QUINN! WE’RE HERE!”

“I can’t see her!” Faith calls.

“Get the light!” Spencer yells.

“The switch is out!”

“I’M COMING, QUINN!” Mack yells, running into the room. She screams a battle cry and start firing arrows randomly into the darkness, barely missing Spencer’s arm by inches.

That brings Spencer’s flailing antics to a halt. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

Mack freezes and considers what she might’ve just done. “Shit. QUINN!”

“Quinn!” Spencer shouts again. She doesn’t hear anything, doesn’t feel any webs. And now her eyes are adjusting from the faint light in the hall, and she can’t see Quinn anywhere. She takes two steps forward and trips over something, stumbling and cursing and swinging the sledgehammer again. It strikes something near the ground, making a hollow sound, and Spencer flails until she hears Faith shouting at her.

“Hey, hey! Whoa! It’s just a pylon.”

“SNAKES?!” Mack shouts, frantically aiming the crossbow at the ground again.

Spencer can now make out what seems to be lines marked off about ten yards apart. A football field. Empty as the last ones. “It’s a cone, you moron,” she says, brushing past Mack as she exits the room.

Donna and Lucy turn around with hope in their eyes, but Spencer just shakes her head. Mack and Faith file out and close the door, joining the circle and looking just as disheartened. Nobody seems to want to say what they’re all thinking -- Quinn was supposed to be here. It was their best shot.

_Where ARE you?_

Lucy breaks away from the silent group and revs up her chainsaw without a word, heading back down the hall toward Umbridge’s office.

Spencer stops to talk to the others and regroup. “Okay, we keep looking. There are still four more gyms.” She’s trying not to sound hopeless. She’s trying to remember that each dead end is another item crossed off the list, another step closer to finding Quinn.

She’s trying not to think about how absolutely terrified she is.

“Hey, at least now we know we’ve cleared the entire north end,” Faith says. “Buck up.”

Spencer gives her a pursed smile. She needs a steady hand of encouragement right now. Who knew it’d be from Faith, of all people?

As they reach Umbridge’s door, Spencer thinks about their position on the diagram in the doctor’s office, and her mind flashes.

_Sue’s office…_

“Hang on, you guys,” Spencer calls to the rest, up on ahead of her. “I have an idea.”

Mack comes to a halt and turns around. “You’re going back in there?! It’s a dead end. _Literally._ ”

“Just, give me a minute,” Spencer says and opens the door. Immediately, the stench of decay and death comes rushing back, but she pushes through, trying very hard to ignore the half-eaten dead woman and the impending threat written above her. Spencer marches over to the side wall by the bathroom door where the framed picture of Umbridge and that minister guy hangs.

In the exact same spot as the picture in Sue’s office.

Spencer grabs the frame and rips it off the wall, and sure enough, a folded piece of paper falls to the floor. The now-empty space on the wall says, _PLACE MAP HERE AND COVER_.

“Yes!” Spencer cries. “You guys! Come in here!” She grabs the paper and unfolds it, whispering _“I knew it!”_  to herself. The others enter one by one and comment on the overall nastiness of the room once again, but Spencer just tells Faith to shut the door behind them so they can examine the map uninterrupted.

Sure enough, it’s a diagram of a uterus, only it’s labeled with things like “Mess Hall” and “Gym 7” where “Vagina” and “Ovary” should be.

“So, what -- we’re here?” Faith asks, pointing to the spot on the pink curve marked “Administrative.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Spencer says. “It really does look like a uterus, doesn’t it.”

“That is the fucking weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” says Mack. “I mean, I know I have those parts or whatever, but I don’t have a fucking library in my gut.”

“It’s not meant to be anatomically accurate,” says Spencer. “Last I checked, I don’t have a kitchen in my vagina.”

“And yet people still eat there all the time,” Faith says quietly, amused with herself.

“Yeah, no shit,” Mack tells Spencer. She points to the right of the engine room and says, “Nobody has both large arms _and_ small arms.” She taps the map hard with her finger to provide finality to her point. “Dumbass.”

Spencer opens her mouth to say something, but it’s just not worth the energy.

They take turns pointing to various points on the map, starting with the ones they know and then finding new, unfamiliar places. The engine room sounds promising, at least in terms of a place where someone might keep a hostage, as does the barracks. It seems they’ve covered about half the prison so far, which is both encouraging and not. The good news is, as Faith points out, there are in fact only eight gyms, as they thought, which means no new ground to cover in their limited time. But the bad news, Donna notes, is no new G words to explore if they’re wrong.

But Spencer’s only hearing bits and pieces of this conversation. Her mind is racing, trying to assimilate new data and make sense of everything she’s learned so far. Because there’s something on the map that scares her more than having eight gyms to search. “Um,” she finally says. “What’s that?”

The others fall quiet as they see where Spencer’s pointing. Handwritten in pen at the bottom of the ship is one word:

**_LAB?_ **

“All kinds of ships have labs,” Lucy says.

“Wait, there’s a dog?” Mack asks. Everyone stares at her. “What, you’ve never heard of dogs before?”

“We can talk about your dating life later,” Faith retorts and looks back at Spencer. “You said Umbridge was a doctor or whatever, right? Makes sense she’d know about sciencey stuff.”

“It’s not even within the borders of the ship,” Spencer says. “Maybe she doesn’t know where it is.” _That makes two of us._

“Shitty doctor,” Faith scoffs.

“Maybe it’s a _secret_ laboratory,” Spencer offers.

Mack just starts laughing.

“It’s written on the map!” Spencer points.

“I could write ‘Closet to Narnia’ on the map,” Mack says. “Doesn’t make it true.”

Spencer’s eyebrows raise. “I’m amazed you even know that reference.”

Mack flips her the bird and makes a face. “Not surprised _you_ know it, Closet Case.”

“Who’s ‘Narnia’?” Lucy asks, but the others ignore her.

“Seems a bit off, yeah?” Donna asks. “What’s a prison need a lab for?”

 _Making endless clones of evil guards, for one thing_ , Spencer thinks.

_And flesh-eating spiders._

The five women look at each other like this just got a whole lot more complicated.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” says Faith. “All I see’s four more gyms down that hall, calling my name.”

“Right behind you,” says Mack, grabbing her crossbow off the desk. “Sounds like we just need to keep going south til we find the spot, right?” She licks her lips and leers at Donna suggestively, eyes clearly roaming down to her mid-section. “I’m good at that.”

“Ew,” Donna snaps, putting a hand up, “no bloody thank you.”

“Your loss, Sugar Tits,” Mack says suavely and starts strutting out the door and back down the hall.

Donna scoffs and looks to Spencer and Faith for back-up, but Faith just laughs.

“Do you have a pocket?” Spencer asks Donna, handing her the map. Securing it safely, they hurry to catch up with Mack, Faith, and Lucy, closing the door behind. Spencer hopes they’ll never have to set sights on anything so horrific ever again.

They’re moving quickly now, confident in their ability to take out anyone in their path but less in their ability to find Quinn in time. They need to get into new territory. _Now_. Spencer’s no longer concerned with stealth. The chainsaw sounds like a freight train, and they’re tracking bloody footprints as they pass through the wake of Lucy’s rampage. It’s not like a toddler couldn’t find them at this point.

As they pass the cell block corridor and head toward the identical vault door – this one still sealed – that leads to the classes hallway, Spencer does a double take and stops in her tracks. The door to the engine room is in between the two hallways; they’ve passed it at least twice today. It’s no wonder, though – it blends right in with the wall, not set in from the edge, and the stenciled paint labeling the door is half scratched off.

“Hang on, guys,” Spencer calls ahead. “Let’s check in here first.”

Approaching the rust-covered wall, Spencer can’t see a lock, or even a door handle for that matter. Then she notices small box attached beside the door frame that looks like a key card reader. Something they most definitely don’t have.

“Think you can break it down?” she asks Faith. They’ve already busted one door down today, after all.

“My pleasure.” Faith extends a hand toward the sledgehammer, and Spencer complies. With a few steps for a running start, Faith charges the door and slams the metal head dead center at eye level. The door dents but doesn’t budge, and the sound echoes down the hallway in both directions with a resounding boom. Faith repeats the action, managing to strike nearly the same spot, and grunts loudly as she attacks it a third time.

Suddenly, the door opens a few inches and a sweaty, angry face appears. “What the fuck do you want? We’re a little busy.”

Spencer steps forward to get a better look. “Raven?” It’s harder to recognize her out of her typical navy-blue uniform. Instead, her body is wrapped in a thin, white, polyblend, prison-issue sheet. Spencer hasn’t seen the inside of the engine room – and still can’t from this angle – but she expected more noise and less…sex smell. (The alcohol smell, she was prepared for.)

“If you need booze, you’ll need to wait until I make rounds tomorrow.” There’s a clanking noise and the sound of soft footsteps out of sight, and Raven winces.

“Who’s in there with you?” Spencer asks.

“None of your business.” Raven starts to shut the door. “Tomorrow.”

“Wait! Wait!” Spencer runs forward and puts a hand out, pushing it open with an inch to spare. “Can you just tell us if Quinn’s in there.”

“Quinn? Haven’t seen her.” Raven looks sincere. Glancing around at the ragtag crew, she starts piecing together the situation. “Sorry I can’t help you.”

“She’s missing. We think she’s been taken. You’re _sure_ she’s not in there?”

“I’d invite you in to check it yourself, but there’s this nudity situation I need to get back to.”

“Right, tell Starbuck we say hi.” It’s an awkward thing to say but becomes even more awkward when Raven’s face drops. That’s not who she’s hiding. “Or, um,” Spencer stumbles, trying to recover but failing. “How about we pretend we never came by at all?”

“Yeah, good plan.”

Spencer pauses for a moment, afraid to ask what just entered her mind, but she can’t let this opportunity pass. “It’s not…Sue, is it?”

Raven scowls, and that gives her all the answer she needs.

But then a different voice comes from inside the room, _“Hey, what’s going on?”_  Footsteps get nearer to the door, until Raven’s face is pushed out of view and Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins appears. Along with the rest of her. Very much not wrapped in a sheet.

“Oh, hi, Spencer. What can we do for you?” the doctor asks with a friendly smile.

Spencer suddenly looks very confused. It seems odd that a doctor would be drawn to a mechanic, but sure, whatever.

 _“Goodbye_ , Spencer,” Raven says and start pushing her lover back out of sight.

“Wait, one more question.” Spencer looks down the hall to make sure no more guards are coming while they’re sitting like ducks in the middle of the open atrium. “This might sound weird, but…have you seen any spiders?”

The door’s already closing as Raven says, “Not in here.”

Spencer jumps back as it closes loudly in her face, then leans forward and says, “Sorry to bother you,” as loud as she’ll dare. Glancing once more at the large dent, she adds, “Sorry about your door.” There’s no acknowledgement or reply from behind it. Another dead end. Time to move on.

“Now what?” Faith asks.

Spencer’s not sure what other options they have at this point. If she had thought to use her last question on asking Raven about more things that start with G, they could have new leads. For now, they’ll just have to work with what they have and discuss circling back to bother her again later. Once they’ve finished the sex, perhaps. “We keep going.”

The hall with the other gyms is ahead on the right, behind another vault door. Once Mack has it open, Lucy quickly dismembers another Boomer charging out of the Large Arms Room. Spencer is growing strangely accustomed to the violent act now, and the layer of blood spray on Lucy is evening and thickening with each kill. She looks like Carrie on prom night.

As they reach Gym 1, they assume the same positions as before -- Mack ready to fire, Spencer ready to hit the lights, and Faith kicking the door down. But it’s just as vacant as the previous ones. It does, however, have the weight machines she’d wondered about since she arrived. A lateral press, an elliptical, a pull-up bar, and a bench press with the bar sliding vertically on a track. She doesn’t see any weight rings around. The bench press has a digital display, so she figures the sliding track can be set to provide varying resistance. It’s a clever way to avoid loose objects that the prisoners could pummel each other with.

Provided it doesn’t become a guillotine.

Shaking off that image, she quickly goes to investigate the one other set-up in the gym. On the far end is a rickety billiards table with purple felt and, Spencer discovers, no equipment whatsoever. There do seem to be some faded stain splotches in the center of the table, but they’re not blood, so Spencer quickly diverts her thoughts elsewhere and checks the table’s pockets for creepy-crawlies. Nothing.

Looking around the abandoned room, Spencer heads for the door and mumbles to herself, “Sorry, Mario, but your princess is in another castle.”

Gyms 2 and 3 are strike-outs as well. There’s no more joy of crossing things off a list, only ever-increasing panic and fear. They’re running out of options. They’re getting close. There’s only one gym left.

This is it.

Of course, thanks to Murphy’s Law, Quinn must be in the very last one they check. Better late than never. Hopefully.

Spencer starts back down the hall past the next utility rooms toward Gym 4, when Buffy steps into view and stands in their way, arms crossed and a devilish look in her eyes.

“Why wasn’t I invited to the apocalypse?” She sounds as playful and superior as ever.

Lucy charges at her, chainsaw reared back, and Faith screams loudly, more scared than Spencer’s ever heard her. “NOOO!” Lunging to stop her, Faith grabs at the collar of Lucy’s jumpsuit but misses.

Fortunately, Buffy steps quickly out of the way as Lucy’s momentum carries her right on past, and Faith comes in between them and holds a hand up to Lucy. “STOP! Just, stop. I got this one.”

“You ‘got this one’?” Buffy repeats, clearly amused. She leans against the wall, clearly not the least bit threatened, and Spencer realizes their badass gang must look like a joke. “What, exactly, do you think you have, Captain America?”

Lucy doesn’t lower the chainsaw but does take a step back, and Faith grins, then turns to face Buffy. In one quick, smooth motion, Faith drops the knife and pins Buffy to the wall, her hands on Buffy’s wrists and one knee between her legs.

“You,” Faith says, looking her dead in the eye.

Then, Faith kisses Buffy hard and deep without hesitation, biting at her lip, grunting, hands and body pressing into her like making out is an extreme, full-body contact sport.

Buffy looks like she could’ve tried out for the Olympic team.

Spencer, Mack, Donna, and Lucy can only stand quietly and watch the intense action happening right in front of them. It’s quite mesmerizing, and, Spencer can’t lie -- more than a little hot.

Faith pulls Buffy’s arms down to her side, and, just as swiftly, holds her shoulders and spins the girl around so she’s facing the wall. Buffy slams hard against it, cheek pressed flat, and smiles as Faith pins her wrists behind her back. It’s almost a laugh.

“Tell me what I need to know,” Faith hisses in her ear.

“Make me,” Buffy says, dangerously.

Faith grins and takes both of Buffy’s wrists into one hand, reaching the other around the girl’s waist and diving inside her pants without warning.

_Well, okay then._

_Um._

Buffy’s panting and moaning, whispering things like, _“You’ll never be as strong as I am”_  and _“You’ve never known love a day in your life”_  and _“You don’t know how to make anyone happy, not even yourself,”_  and it just makes Faith pump her arm harder as she presses their bodies together.

Spencer waits for the interrogation to move along a little faster, but the only thing picking up the pace is Faith’s hand.

_Uh. Is she not going to ask Buffy where Quinn is?_

“Tell me,” Faith starts, and Spencer takes a hopeful breath, “ -- how many fingers you use when you _fuck_ yourself thinking of me.”

_Okay then._

Buffy whimpers through the grinding, face smashed against the cold metal, “I’ve been…dead twice…and I still felt…more alive…than when I think of…your fingers inside me…”

Faith yanks hard on Buffy’s hair, eliciting a thunderous moan as her hand moves in a fast blur.

“You know, I think we’ll just...” Spencer says awkwardly. She points in the direction they were heading, catching Donna’s eye, who looks quite like a deer in headlights at their current predicament.

Without another word, Spencer, Lucy, Mack and Donna shuffle away, leaving the sounds of impact and Faith’s grunting as Buffy cries, _“You’re nothing! You’ll ALWAYS BE NOTHING!...Oh, GOD!...”_

As they reach Gym 4, their final destination, Spencer realizes their brute force is now otherwise preoccupied.

She’s in charge now.

“This is it, you guys.” Spencer says, staring at the door. “Quinn’s in there.”

They have a quiet moment, gathering their strength, and Spencer isn’t quite sure how they’re going to pull this off.

“Stand back,” Lucy says, revving up again. She takes out the lock easily but loudly, and Mack is eager to kick the door away this time.

The light’s already on, and it’s instantly clear that Quinn’s not there.

Spencer’s heart shatters into a million pieces.

_She’s gone._

_If she was ever here at all._

Gym 4 is small and doesn’t look much like a gym at all. It has rows of beds with white sheets, and next to each one is a small table with an unmarked bottle of clear gel inside. It’s the cleanest of all the rooms they’ve checked so far, at least by prison standards. But it’s certainly as empty as the last.

“So, where is she?” Mack asks, frustrated.

Spencer’s pulse is pounding as she fights back tears. She doesn’t know what to do. She _hates_ not knowing what to do.

“I don’t know.”

“What sort of gym is this?” Donna asks, walking inside cautiously. “More like a prison spa.” She picks up one of the bottles and looks at it, smells it, then squirts some of the thick, clear liquid into her hands and rubs it on like lotion.

“I really thought we might find her here,” Lucy says, disappointed.

“Me, too,” Spencer says softly. It just doesn’t make sense. _If Quinn isn’t here, where the hell is she?_

“It seemed right that they’d bring her here,” Lucy agrees. “We do know Quinn enjoys a good fisting, don’t we Spencer?”

Donna drops the bottle and holds her hands up. “I hate prison,” she mumbles, walking quickly back to the door.

But Spencer’s had it up to here with Lucy’s power trip. She’s pissed and sad and scared out of her mind, and she’s not going to take any more of Lucy’s shit. Not today. Not when their chances of finding Quinn alive just dropped dramatically. If Lucy wants to play Petty Jealous Lover, then fine. Spencer’s good at that game, too. She heads for the door, passing closely by Lucy to whisper, “She’s still the best thing I’ve ever had inside me,” letting each word ring in Lucy’s ear.

She struts past with fire in each step, feeling quite smug, but then she hears the chainsaw rev up again and runs fast to get back into the hallway.

_Okay, didn’t think that one through. I see that now._

Their feud isn’t going to get Quinn back any faster. And the sledgehammer’s getting heavier by the minute.

Spencer needs a minute to stop and breathe and think, or she’s going to break down in full-on panic.

The bathrooms are up ahead, just past the library, and Spencer hollers for Donna and Mack to follow and wait for her there. She can hear the echoes of Buffy and Faith still going at it back down the hall. It sounds like Faith’s the one screaming now, but they’re too far away to tell.

Spencer hurries into the bathroom, drops the sledgehammer on the floor, and rushes into a door-less stall. She sits down and buries her face in her hands, letting her emotions catch up to her in this brief moment of privacy.

She let Quinn down. She failed. And now Quinn’s probably dead and half-eaten, god knows where. Just the mental image of Quinn’s face chewed apart like Umbridge’s makes Spencer curl up into a ball on the toilet and press her hands down hard on the back of her head.

The bathroom door opens without warning, and Spencer jumps to pull herself together, sniffling quickly and wiping her tears away. She should probably take care of her business while she’s here, and fortunately, there’s a random smattering of the prison-supplied tampons on the counter for the taking.

“Oh, thank god,” Mack says, entering the room and grabbing the nearest peach package. She sets the crossbow down on the sink, lines it up so it’s pointed directly at Spencer, and heads to a toilet.

“Very funny,” Spencer gripes, then bangs a fist on the stall wall between them twice. She’s upset, and hitting something feels good.

From her current position, Spencer has a clear view of the counter space where Quinn fucked her. She only reminisces about that part for a moment, because her mind quickly fills in the details of what came after.

If that meteor hadn’t hit, if Quinn hadn’t gotten stuck, they would’ve been free to kill the spider on the wall. The spider that Lucy has confirmed was in fact Beth, as far as they know. And if Beth had died that day, they’d have no lead at all on where Quinn is now.

But, Spencer sighs, it’s not like it’s been helpful so far. But she tells herself that she can’t give up. There must be something else, something she’s missed. Quinn’s life, if she still has one, depends on it. They’ve already broken out of their cells. They’ll be killed if the guards catch them by surprise. Spencer has no hopes of ever returning to her family. The only thing she has left is saving Quinn. The only direction to move is forward.

The flush of the toilet next door pulls Spencer out of her daydream. She casts the crossbow aside and washes up quickly, sure to throw the wrapper properly in the trash can on her way out.

Donna, Lucy, and Mack are waiting for her outside. Spencer’s sure Mack didn’t wash her hands, but tries to let it go.

Spencer looks at Lucy, who’s still looking like she did a swan dive into a pool of red paint. “Did you wanna go wash up?” she says tentatively.

Lucy just smiles politely back. “No, I’m fine.”

_You are the furthest thing from “fine.”_

“So, now what?” Donna asks. The same question is written across the other girls’ faces.

“I don’t know.” Had they thought she’d come up with some brilliant plan while taking a dump? “Back to square one.”

“So, the ‘G,’” Lucy says. “That’s what?”

“Guard!” Donna shouts.

“Maybe?” Spencer says with a glimmer of hope at a new lead. “I guess if --”

“No, GUARD!” Donna shouts louder, and they all turn to see yet another charging Boomer. Before Lucy can rev up her chainsaw, Mack aims and fires an arrow right into the woman’s face. She falls to the ground instantly and doesn’t move to get up.

Mack turns back to Spencer and throws the crossbow across her shoulder. “You were saying?”

Spencer’s not sure what’s more surprising, that Mack defended her or that she landed a shot on target. “Thanks?” She shakes off the brutality she just witnessed and does a quick 360-degree visual sweep to ensure they’re alone. “I can’t think of anything else that starts with a G. It’s not a very common letter for the start of words.” Fifteen years of kicking her sister’s ass at Scrabble taught her that.

Mack starts throwing out random G-words in an attempt to help. “G-string… gerbil… gin... gun... grenade... grandma... groping… gogurt… gonorrhea…”

Spencer glares at her.

“Not the typical girl, are you?” Donna says, eyeing Mack suspiciously.

“Girl!” Spencer says, holding up a hand as she adds the word to her mental list. This could be a lead. She looks off to the side so her train of thought won’t be interrupted, but there are still too many possibilities. “Goddamnit,” she mutters in frustration.

“Ooh! ‘God’! That’s another one!” Mack says proudly.

“You think God took her?” Spencer asks dryly, not amused in the slightest. “It’s a person.”

“God’s not a person, dumbass,” says Mack arrogantly.

 _“G!”_  Spencer says in frustration. “For _girl!”_

“God’s a girl?” Mack asks.

“Oh, this is fun,” Donna says to no one in particular.

Lucy turns to Spencer. “You think Beth was writing ‘girl’? How does that help? This place has nothing but girls.”

“Girl Been Ate,”  Mack mutters, crossing her arms.

They all glare.

“Maybe not,” Spencer thinks out loud, “but what if Beth was writing a _name?_  Not the place where Quinn is, but someone who knows where she’d be. Beth was telling us who to go talk to.”

The group is quiet for a moment, taking that in and running through their mental rosters.

Spencer is the first to look up, smiling.


	46. Sex Marks the Spot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer leads the team around the corner and up the cell block hall, rapidly checking faces in each one. She knows her destination is close to Quinn’s cell -- her former home -- because she’s passed it a million times.

The prisoners are yelling at them again, wanting to know why they aren’t letting them out, and Spencer almost stops to consider it. These women are pretty tough, and they could be helpful in a fight. It’d sure give the gang a much better chance of outnumbering the Boomers, however many more there are.

But with this latest development -- the idea that one, if not more, of the prisoners is in on Quinn’s capture -- Spencer’s not taking any chances. She’s never been one to trust these women, and she doesn’t particularly feel like starting now. Besides, Spencer’s already left them to rot twice now, who’s to say they wouldn’t just shank her right there on the spot? Or sell her out to the next guard they see for a ticket off this death trap? No, it’s better to remain in control, and that means fewer variables.

“Sorry,” she says in turn to each cell as she runs, but she doesn’t really mean it. And then she sees a new face sitting on a bunk in cell 8, and Spencer halts. Donna, Mack, and Lucy Fabray catch up and stop behind her.

“Who are you?”

The tall woman just stares at her, blank-faced. Her black, curly hair and dead eyes match the jumpsuit disturbingly well.

“Oh!” Lucy says, setting down the blood-soaked chainsaw and stepping forward. “Hola nueva prisionera! Me llamo Lucy!”

The woman looks at Lucy, then at Spencer, and says dryly, “Rough night?”

“You could say that,” Spencer replies, relaxing a bit. “Spencer Hastings.”

“Rosa Diaz. You’re here to kill me?” The woman’s voice has the emotional range of a rock, so it comes off as more of a statement. She looks back at Lucy and says, loudly and slowly, “¿VAS A MATARME?”

“What?” Lucy replies. “No. We don’t even know you.”

“Oh. Cool.”

Rosa starts asking what they’re doing there, but Spencer isn’t listening. Her eyes are on the other top bunk, where Rosa’s cellmates have just stopped what appears to be a frisky make-out session. Kat, lying down, peers over as the other girl rolls off of her.

Spencer steps forward, resting the sledgehammer on her shoulder. “Hello, Graham.”

Graham looks from Spencer to Lucy, red-splattered chainsaw back in hand, and then to Mack, who’s got the crossbow aimed right at her head. “What’s going on?”

“That’s what we want to know. Where’s Quinn?” Spencer is in full Hastings mode now, and there isn’t time to fuck around.

“In her cell? It’s lockdown.” Graham’s trademark sarcasm is there, but it seems tempered by the barrage of deadly weapons aimed at her.

“Funny enough, she’s not. And I know you know where she is, so don’t bullshit me.” She nods to her companion and adds, “Lucy’s been cutting through bullshit all night.”

Graham’s eyes widen slightly. “Look, I seriously don’t know, okay? Why would I? I barely know her.”

“Someone we trust sold you out,” Spencer says. “Didn’t even hesitate.” She’s bending the truth now, but that’s what lawyers do, and she’s not about to show how weak her hand really is to this traitor.

“What are you talking about?” Graham asks. She’s not buying it. “That’s bullshit. Your ‘friend’ lied to you.”

“She would never lie to me,” Lucy says, starting up the chainsaw.

“We’re gonna open this door,” Spencer yells over the noise, “and you’re gonna take us to Quinn. Right now.”

“I DON’T KNOW WHERE SHE IS,” Graham shouts, desperate and scared. Her cellmates don’t seem to know what to do, caught between wanting to help but really wanting to stay out of the way of the murder weapons. “I SWEAR!”

“Look, just stay back!” Kat yells, but it’s lost over the sound of the chainsaw.

Spencer nods to Donna, who pulls out the sonic screwdriver and opens the door. All three girls inside jump back, looking far more scared now that there’s nothing between them and certain death. Spencer motions to Graham to get down and come out, but Graham furiously shakes her head.

 _Oh, fuck this_.

Spencer heads right for her, grabbing Graham’s leg and attempting to pull her off the bed, but Graham’s kicking and screaming. Kat swoops down and punches Spencer in the eye, then immediately retreats as Lucy storms in, chainsaw buzzing even more loudly now that the sound’s trapped in this tiny room. Spencer recovers and grabs on to both of Graham’s feet to keep them from kicking her in the face as they’re yelling at each other.

Before Spencer realizes what’s happening, Lucy saws off both of Graham’s still-kicking legs at the knee in quick succession, leaving Spencer holding two very bloody and very detached ankles. The screams of horror from Graham, Kat, and Spencer ring out over the hum of the machine, and, with a step up on the bed frame, Lucy drives the end into Graham’s chest. It catches on her ribcage, jerking and sputtering, as the rotating chain sprays blood all over the wall, bed, Lucy herself, Spencer, and even Rosa and Kat on the far side. She manages to pull it free and turn the machine off, as it whines against the threads of guts now caught in its gears, and only when it fully stops can Spencer’s panicked voice be heard.

“WHY! WHY DID YOU DO THAT! SHE WAS OUR ONLY LEAD.”

Spencer freezes in horror as she realizes she’s still holding the severed limbs and is, in fact, shaking them for emphasis as she speaks. She tosses them aside with a shudder, and one flies across the cell to where Kat is cowering by the toilet.

It hits her right in the face. Kat screams again.

“You said that last time,” Lucy replies, pushing flesh chunks off the chains with the sleeve of her jumpsuit. “It still isn’t true.” She blinks and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. It doesn’t remove any blood, just smears it around. “She didn’t know anything,” she says to Spencer.

“WE DON’T KNOW THAT.”

Lucy is unfazed. She shrugs and says, “I did.”

“SO, WE TURN AND WALK AWAY. WE DON’T JUST KILL PEOPLE FOR _FUN_. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

Lucy stares Spencer down but doesn’t reply. Instead, she turns to address Graham’s cellmates. “Does anyone else know where Quinn might be?” she asks calmly.

Kat shakes her head, pissing herself in fear and crying softly.

“No,” Rosa says. “But that was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.” Her deadpan delivery and stern face suggests otherwise, but Spencer rolls with it.

“Thank you,” Lucy politely replies, and turns to leave, fresh blood dripping off her clothes in a trail as she passes through the open door.

“Will you be my new best friend?” Rosa calls after. “Amiga?”

Spencer shudders again as she exits the cell and slams the door.

****************

She’s going to be sick.

Once Spencer’s out of cell 8, she’s running down the corridor, back toward the bathrooms. There was a toilet in the cell, but there was a _leg_ next to it, and she needed to get the hell out of there. _Fast_. And now she’s unarmed and running off alone, but she doesn’t care.

This whole thing has gotten way out of hand.

It was supposed to be easy. The gyms were the clear answer. _Why wasn’t she there?_  And Graham was a good lead. It made sense, right? The spiders must be getting help from someone, and they’re running out of Gs. It’s possible Graham still knew something. It’s possible Lucy was wrong. They didn’t just dismember and eviscerate an innocent girl in cold blood for nothing.

_Right?_

Spencer doesn’t quite make it in time and vomits all over the counter. The same counter where…

This place ruins everything. Everyone.

She opens her eyes and sees her reflection in the mirror. It’s a little blurred through the plexiglass, but Spencer can see clearly enough what a monster she’s become. Her face is red with spray and bits of flesh and tissue hang from her hair. She retches again, coughs painfully, forehead pressed against the hard counter, and cries.

_I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry._

She doesn’t even know who she’s apologizing to.

Graham. Quinn. Herself.

She’s shaking, clutching the knobs of the faucet just to have something to hold on to. There’s not much in the sink; her stomach hasn’t been full for months. Spencer turns on the cold and rinses the contents down the open drain without looking, then splashes a handful of water on her face. Wiping away the first layer of blood, she opens her eyes just enough to watch the red swirls dance in the basin before they slip away. There seems to be a little soap left in the dispenser, but it won’t be enough.

She’s seen death before. She’s killed before. But this all feels out of her control. She’s no longer behind bars, but she’s never felt so trapped. There are literally _space monsters circling her_ , drawn by the blood soaked into her uniform, and a swarm of silent killers lurking somewhere in these walls. She’s surrounded by certain death. She can’t fight back against an enemy she can’t see.

Spencer scrubs harder, clawing at her skin, rubbing hard against her cheekbones. She holds her whole head under the faucet and tears at her hair, pulling over and over and over. It’ll never feel clean.

She screams into the sink, feeling the waves bounce back against her face. It’s deafening, and it’s the last ounce of energy Spencer has to give. She’s dehydrated, exhausted, and completely empty inside. There’s nothing left. This place has taken everything.

She wants to go home.

She wants to go back to her old life and her old friends, before she knew any of these terrible people in this terrible place. She wishes she never met any of them. Wishes she didn’t care about any of them. How in the world did she delude herself into thinking she might actually find _love_ in a place like this? Surrounded by killers and monsters? She fell for a goddamn serial killer, for christ’s sake. Looking for something undefinable with someone unredeemable. That’s ambitious even for Hastings’ standards. And look where it’s gotten her.

Spencer opens her eyes and takes in her ragged, worn reflection. Eyes red and sunken, hair oily and limp, skin pale and deprived of vitamins for months now. It’s getting harder to remember what she used to look like. Clean, healthy, makeup and a new outfit. It all feels so foreign now, like a good dream she used to have. Her life is never going to get any better. This is it for her, for them. Horrible as this day has been, she’s come too far now to go back. She can’t bring back the lives they’ve taken. She can’t run forever from the hell Sue’s going to rain down on them when they’re caught. And she sure as hell can’t go home ever again.

But if she’s going to die today – and it seems pretty likely – she’s going to die for something.

She’s a Hastings, goddamnit.

****************

“Okay.”

Spencer’s pulled herself together as much as she can and reconvened with the group in the hall. They need to keep moving; her little breakdown just set them back another ten minutes at least. She brushes her hair out of her face and looks around, trying to plan their next move. “I think we’ve been thinking too inside the box. If the spiders don’t want Quinn to be found, they must have her somewhere off the grid.”

“It’s a space ship,” Donna says. “Only so many places to hide.”

“Not when we don’t know where to look,” Spencer says, pointedly.

“So, what now?” Mack asks, “You think we should bang down every door until we find her?”

 _“You_ said to only look for the letter G,” Donna says, frustrated. _“That’s_ clearly not working.”

Lucy exhales a heavy sigh. “We must have passed a dozen classrooms and closets. Now you think she could be in any of them?”

“Tell that to Legless back there,” Donna huffs.

“No,” Spencer says, “if we’d passed Quinn, we would’ve found a clue or something. We need to keep moving forward.”

Mack looks behind Spencer into their unchartered territory, which is all too familiar. “To the caf?” she scoffs.

“Wouldn’t have someone have found her there by now?” Donna asks.

Mack turns to Spencer. “If you’re craving some fish taco, just say so.”

Donna frowns.

“I’m not --” Spencer starts.

“It does seem a bit obvious as a location,” Lucy agrees matter-of-factly, “if you’re going to be eating someone.”

Donna makes a worse face.

“I miss Santana,” Lucy adds wistfully.

“Oh god, please don’t--” Donna starts, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT THE CAFETERIA,” Spencer snaps, as the others jump back. “Map, please?!” she says to Donna, holding out her hand impatiently. Then, Spencer points to what appears to be the entrance to a hallway running alongside the Mess Hall. There’s one on the opposite side, too. Spencer’s never really thought about them before now, but it’s their final uncharted territory. And they’re about ten feet from the entrance.

_“That.”_

“Oh,” says Lucy.

Mack makes a face at Spencer and starts walking toward the hall on the left side.

“Should we split up?” Donna asks, but Spencer shakes her head.

“We have no idea how many guards could be back there. Something tells me it’s a lot.”

As they turn the corner to enter the hallway, Spencer sees a sign on the wall.

**← MESS HALL**

**← CELL BLOCK**

**← CLASSROOMS**

**FOOD STORAGE →**

**SOLITARY WARD →**

**WASTE REMOVAL →**

_Bingo._

“Come on,” Spencer says, motioning for the group to continue down the hall to the right. “This way.”

“You can’t be serious,” Mack says, staring at the end of the list. “You think they’ve got Quinn in the shit tank?”

Donna looks sold on the idea. “Last place I’d want to look.”

“Yeah, you kids have fun,” Mack waves and turns to go back the way they came.

“No, you ass,” Spencer says. “If there’s a secret part of this ship or a passageway we don’t know about, we need to ask someone who’s been here a long time.”

“If I knew, I’d tell you,” Lucy says, shortly. “I don’t.”

Spencer shakes her head. “Longer.” The others stare, confused. Spencer points to the _SOLITARY_ sign. “Ellen Ripley.”

There’s an awkward silence.

“Bullshit,” Mack tries to call her bluff. “Even you’re not that stupid.”

“Is this the woman from that file you saw?” Donna asks. “The one who killed people at Christmastime?”

“She’s been here longer than anyone. Longer than Sue, longer than you,” Spencer looks at Lucy. “We should at least talk to her. She’s locked up; it’s not like she can hurt us.”

“Not for six more months, anyway,” Lucy adds absently.

“Anyone have any better ideas?” Spencer asks and receives no answers. As they begin walking again, she says, “We’ve already doubled back through those halls; I don’t want to waste any more time. There are parts of the ship we haven’t seen yet. We didn’t even know this thing _had_ two levels until an hour ago. If she’s not up here, then she’s down there. There has to be a way.”

“I’ve never seen any signs for stairs,” Mack says.

“What are stairs?” Lucy asks. “Are they like stars?”

Spencer just sighs and says, “I’ll let you know if I see any.”

As they make their way around the outside of the cafeteria, they pass the door for waste removal, but it’s sealed and bolted shut. Not even Lucy’s chainsaw can cut through it, which means spiders probably can’t either. The group decides to press on, not admitting to each other they’ll take the risk of Quinn being in there just so they don’t have to face the smell.

Spencer leads the group onward. “Keep your eyes peeled for anywhere they could be keeping her. Something you usually wouldn’t notice. Something subtle. Or anything that looks like a way down.”

“What about a way up?” Donna says. The question brings the group to a halt. She’s standing still, looking up toward the ceiling, where there’s an open panel leading into darkness. It seems like it’s supposed to be there, but Spencer’s quite curious all the same. It’s about ten feet over their heads, very much out of reach. The other women gather around and peer up at it.

“What do you think is up there?” Spencer asks.

“QUINN?!” Mack yells, but Spencer quickly shushes her. They’ve been lucky not to see any guards for a while. But for all she knows, this could be one giant trap.

On the other hand, it’s certainly not outside the realm of possibilities for the spiders to be floating people up into the ceiling where no one can get them down. It’s quite brilliant, she realizes. And it makes Spencer even more anxious to see what’s hiding up there. “Here, hoist me up.”

“Yeah, that’s hilarious,” Mack says.

“I’m serious. The three of you can hold me. I think I can grab the edge and pull myself up.” When they all continue to stare are her, she snaps, “Quinn could be up there!”

It takes a minute of awkward adjustments, but eventually they position Donna as the base, in a lunge for Spencer to stand on her thigh. Then, Lucy and Mack each push upward on Spencer’s feet to lift her as high as they can.

“Where’s…Faith…when you…need her,” Mack grits, trembling.

Spencer stretches hard to reach and is just barely able to curl her fingers around the ceiling ledge. “Got it!” she says, and Mack immediately falls away, leaving Lucy supporting Spencer’s full weight without warning. “Keep pushing!” Spencer cries, kicking her free leg as if that would help her find Mack’s support again. Donna reaches out to take the flailing foot and heave Spencer upward.

“Pull! Go, go, go!”

Grimacing against the sharp edges of metal under her fingers, Spencer grunts and pulls hard, barely managing to get most of her weight over the threshold. She swings her left leg up and rolls over, panting for a moment and staring up into the darkness as her comrades cheer down below.

“Is she up there?” Mack calls.

“What do you see?” says Lucy.

But all Spencer sees is a tiny metal room, not even big enough to stand in; more like a crawl space. Its purpose, it seems, is to house a small electrical panel in the wall. It’s been ripped out, though – still connected, but the wires are an absolute mess. It’s clear they’ve been cut and frayed and spliced back together. No way is Spencer touching that.

“It’s some kind of electrical unit,” she calls down. “I can’t tell what it is.”

“Does it matter?” Mack retorts. “If Quinn’s not there, just come back down already.”

“Hang on a second.” Spencer squints as her eyes adjust to the shadows and the green and red LED lights on the panel. There aren’t many words printed on it, but even just a clue would let her know if this is a lead worth pursuing. And that’s when she sees it – a circular dial with the reading 9.807.

9.807 meters per second squared. Any straight-A student knows that number.

That’s the Earth’s gravitational constant.

“You guys, I think I just found the machine that creates gravity on the ship,” she calls down, peeking her head over the edge.

“The G-SPOT,” Lucy says, and Mack stifles a laugh.

“The _what?”_  Spencer asks. Donna’s face seems to ask the same question.

“The Gravitational System Permitting Outerspace Travel,” Lucy supplies matter-of-factly. “I wondered where it was. Every ship has one. Typically up high, hard to reach, difficult to locate.”

Spencer’s mouth falls open and closed again. There’s really nothing she can say to that. But then she realizes, “This must be the G that Sue was talking about. She said she wanted a status report from Raven.”

Mack looks at Lucy and says smoothly, “You ever need help finding _your_ G-spot, just holler.” Lucy glares and holds her chainsaw a little tighter.

Donna calls up, “So, you don’t think it’s just this Raven girl who’s been turning the gravity off, then?”

“Not last night. These wires are all chewed up,” Spencer calls down. She can’t think of any reason why Raven would destroy something she then has to repair when she could just turn it off instead. “Someone messed with it who didn’t want it to be fixed.” Spencer imagines them crawling along the walls in the night, up here undetected, knowing right where to go and what to do. The whole thing makes her shiver.

These are some pretty fucking smart little spiders.

Knowing they were here recently also makes her want to get the hell out of there.

“Here, help me down,” she says. “Wait…put the weapons over there first, please.” She flattens herself against the floor. Slowly, Spencer lowers her legs, then carefully finds footholds on Mack and Lucy again. Dropping to the ground with a huff, Spencer brushes the dust off her uniform and shakes out her hair. “Well, at least that’s one mystery solved.”

“Yeah, good work, Sherlock Homo,” Mack says. “Can we go now? I wanna swing by the kitchen and swipe some bread for my new batch. Oh, and I also don’t want _my friend to be dead._ ”

Spencer stares at her, grabs the sledgehammer off the floor, and continues onward down the hall. “This way.”


	47. They Mostly Come at Night (Mostly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

“Should we circle back for Faith?” Lucy asks as they get further and further from the classes corridor. It _has_ been quite a long time.

Spencer looks down the hall behind them, but Faith’s not coming. Or at least not _that_ kind of coming. “We’ll catch up to her later.”

They take off as a brisk pace, and then Spencer slows as they seem to be getting nearer to Solitary. She is only just now thinking about what kind of safeguards might be in place. If this is the high-security section, are they even going to be able to get to Ripley? How many other prisoners will be back here? And, most importantly, how many guards?

The four women reach a clearing as the hallway widens, and Spencer realizes they’re at the very back of the kitchen. Even without the map, the smells of rotten food and general cafeteria ickiness would’ve given it away. There is an open space now that connects them to the parallel hallway that goes along the other side of the cafeteria, their proverbial road not traveled. Spencer makes a mental note to go back that way when they return. If the grav control (she refuses to call it the G-SPOT) was on this side, there could be something important over there, too.

The only thing ahead is a giant wall with the hallways continuing on either side and a giant sign.

**^ SOLITARY WARD ^**

Spencer gulps.

_Here goes nothing._

“You guys ready?” she turns to ask.

The others nod and ready their weapons. Mack scowls and waves at the air, saying, “Anywhere but here.” But before Spencer can raise her sledgehammer, something catches her eye.

On the rear wall of the kitchen, next to a door into the facility, is a handle on a panel in the wall with clear, large, red letters above it.

**GARBAGE**

Wrapped around the handle is a mess of jumbled yellow thread, dropping all the way down to the floor. And the chute’s slightly open – just enough space for something small to slip through.

“Oh my god,” Spencer says, dropping her hammer to the ground and running. The other three quickly see what she sees, what they’d just walked past unaware, and follow.

Spencer pulls the handle and she’s immediately overwhelmed with the stench rising from the open garbage chute. It’s about two feet wide and eighteen inches deep, certainly wide enough for a large bag of trash to fit.

Or a person.

“How did I not think of this?” Spencer berates herself, pulling at her hair and pacing. “It’s not like garbage isn’t a common word! I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. Why would spiders live in a _gymnasium_? Stupid, stupid, stupid…”

“Hey!” Donna says, taking hold of Spencer’s shoulders. “It’s alright, yeah? We figured it out.” Her voice is comforting, and Spencer’s glad someone’s here who wants to take care of her, even though she can take care of herself. She’s so tired. So very, very tired.

“I know you don’t want to look down there,” Donna continues, and Spencer is grateful for the offer she’s anticipating. If Donna will look instead, Spencer never has to risk seeing Quinn stuffed down in a garb—”but you’re gonna have to,” Donna says, “because I think we’re all about to retch.”

Sure enough, Mack’s turning green and holding her hand over her mouth. Lucy seems fine, but that’s not exactly surprising.

Spencer steels herself and leans over, looking down into the chute. It takes all her willpower to not puke into the open tunnel, herself. It’s deep and dark, maybe twenty feet high or more. Then, taking a risk, she calls, _“Quinn?”_  but receives no reply. No scuttling up the sides to attack her, either.

“I don’t see her,” Spencer says in a nasal voice, covering her nose. “I think there’s definitely…” she chooses her words carefully, “something in here, but I can’t see. It could just be trash.”

“Or it could be our friends,” Mack says, instantly regretting releasing the hold on her nose.

Spencer squints and tries to adjust to the darkness. She can’t see just where the bottom is, but there is definitely light coming from the other end, like it feeds into a room far below.

_Level 1._

_That’s it._

But some of the light is blocked by whatever’s in the tunnel. Or whoever. Spencer’s glad she didn’t see “Furnace” anywhere on the map. Still, they need more answers. _Now._

“Okay, yeah, it’s really far down. It goes to the first floor, whatever’s down there.”

“The lab?” Lucy asks.

“Maybe? I can’t see. But we have to find a way.”

Mack raises her free hand. “If you need a volunteer to shove you down–”

“No, it’s blocked. It’s too far to jump, and I’d never be able to get back out. We have to come at this from the other side.”

“Assuming she’s even in there,” Lucy adds.

“It’s the best lead we have. Look at the thread on the handle. The spiders cut the gravity, then pull on the handle to open it and float someone in. When Raven turns the gravity back on, the person falls, and they eat them at the bottom. Nobody investigates it because it’s supposed to smell bad in here. Whatever they don’t finish goes out with the other kitchen trash. It’s genius.”

The others don’t seem thrilled by this development but can’t argue with the spiders’ system, either. It does make sense. In fact, it’s the first thing they’ve found all day that does.

“So, you’re saying Quinn’s in there, half-eaten or whatever,” Mack says, disheartened. “That’s it, then.” She flaps her arms to her sides and turns away.

“That’s not what I said. We don’t know if she’s in there. But we do know we have to get _down there_. Now. If there’s any chance of saving her.” Spencer takes a breath. “And that means we keep going. Ripley’s still our best shot of finding a way to the lower level.”

“Whatever,” Mack says, and picks up her crossbow angrily.

Spencer closes the chute, whispering, _“We’re coming,”_  and letting her words get trapped inside, hoping they’ll float down to the ears they need to reach.

****************

They reach a right turn as the hall ends, and Spencer immediately puts out her arms and pushes everyone back around the corner and out of sight. There is a blonde woman standing guard, facing away from them and pacing. She’s wearing a maroon leather suit that makes her look very intimidating, certainly more than the regular guards. It appears she’s standing in front of another hallway that must have the Solitary prisoners, but Spencer can’t quite see.

Given the nature of Solitary housing the roughest criminals, Spencer originally anticipated this would be the most heavily guarded area of the prison, but that was before she found the spiders’ probable dumping grounds. If her new theory is right, and this end of the prison is mostly forgotten, something finally might be going their way. “Okay,” she breathes in a hushed whisper, “there’s just one.”

“No problem,” says Lucy, stepping forward with her chainsaw.

Spencer grabs her and yanks her back. _“NO!_  NO MORE KILLING _.”_

Lucy looks confused, but Spencer’s more than ready for a new approach. “It’ll be too loud. We can’t draw any more attention. We’re cornered in this part of the ship. If we get flanked by more guards, we can’t get out. We do this quietly.”

Lucy sighs and lowers her weapon.

“I think I can get to Ripley if I can sneak past _her_ ,” Spencer gestures to the guard with her head. “Maybe if one of you distracts her somehow, I --”

“DIBS!” Mack whispers so loudly Spencer has to shush and berate her. Someone’s mood seems to have dramatically improved by this turn of events.

She shouldn’t be surprised, she realizes. This woman is practically a more adult version of Quinn. Well, if Quinn dressed like Mistress Berry.

Spencer’s mind goes to a very interesting place, and she pushes the image away. Out of respect for the possibly-dead, of course.

Checking to be sure the guard is still unaware of their presence, Spencer says, “Fine. Circle around to the other side and draw her that way. You two stay here in case something goes wrong.”

Donna nods, but Lucy sighs again, looking very bored and disappointed.

“Go,” Spencer says to Mack, who sets down the crossbow quietly on the floor and takes off, doubling back to where they found the garbage chute.

It takes less than a minute, and then Spencer sees Mack strolling out the opposite hallway, about thirty feet away, heading right for the guard like she’s God’s gift to women.

“Hey there.”

The guard turns instantly.

“I’m Mack. Just thought you should know what name you’ll be screaming later.”

Spencer’s face falls into her hands.

_Oh my god._

The guard tilts her head curiously and steps forward with confidence, not taking her eyes off Mack. “You’re in violation of lockdown, inmate,” she says gravely.

“That’s a hell of an outfit,” Mack says. “Think I could talk you out of it?”

Spencer’s cringing at every word, but it’s certainly doing the trick. The guard’s leaving her post. Spencer tiptoes out and starts toward the hallway to Solitary. The guard’s now only about five feet from Mack, and Spencer has no idea what’s about to happen.

“Look, I don’t have a lot of time here,” Mack starts again with a confident, cheesy grin. “My face is leaving in ten minutes. Will you be on it or not?”

That stops Spencer in her tracks, and her sledgehammer clangs as it hits the ground. “Really?!”

_Shit._

The guard turns and glares at Spencer, fire in her eyes, and Mack looks terrified.

“Hey!” Mack starts, grabbing the guard’s shoulder, but the guard pulls her weapon from her holster -- a maroon baton that perfectly matches her outfit -- and pushes the end into Mack’s ribcage. Mack instantly crumples to the ground, screaming and writhing in agony, like it’s some kind of taser.

Spencer can’t see what’s happening to Mack from this angle, nor does she see Lucy, who’s now running in with her weapon raised. With a quick pull on the chain and a battle cry, Lucy plunges the end of the saw straight into the guard’s back, so it’s sticking a foot out the other side, spraying blood all over the weak, crying Mack.

“LUCY!” Spencer screams.

Lucy retracts the saw and the guard falls to the ground. She powers down her machine and turns to Spencer, blinking through the fresh layer of blood on her face. “What?”

Spencer is in shock. She doesn’t even know what to say.

“She was going to kill you,” Lucy says. Removing the single key from the loop on the guard’s belt, she walks past Spencer toward the Solitary unit as if she’d done nothing more than squash a bug.

Spencer takes a deep breath and reassesses the scene. Mack’s not going anywhere, at least not right now. Spencer’s team is dropping like flies. “Stay with her?” she says to Donna, who nods.

Fortunately, it looks like Spencer was right; there’s only the one guard in this ward. There are three large doors -- two opposite each other on the left and right, and one facing her on the end. There are no signs or marking on the doors. Each one is large and blue with a small, square window (covered) and a heavy, horizontal bar. Spencer starts with the door on the right, lifting the hinged metal plate to look through the window. The cell is small, dingy, and empty, containing only a crude toilet and a bare mattress on the metal floor. She peers into the second cell, in the center, and is met with two stern, brown eyes staring right back at her.

Spencer screams and jumps back as the flap clangs shut.

She takes a steadying breath and cautiously approaches the window again, prepared for what’s on the other side. She prays there isn’t more than one “very dangerous” prisoner here. Other than the one already traveling with her, anyway.

“Ellen Ripley?” she says.

No response.

But this time, she keeps looking inside. The prisoner is sitting on the mattress with her elbows on her knees. Her uniform is so faded it’s become gray and even more threadbare than Spencer’s. One hand is buried in a mop of curly brown hair that’s sure to also be a home for god knows what else. The smell from the cell is unbearable.

“Are you Ellen Ripley?” Spencer repeats.

The woman keeps staring back.

“You’re new,” she says, moving her hand down. Her voice sounds weak, like it’s been unused for quite some time. “What happened to Cara?”

_Who?_

_Oh…the guard._

“Cara? Oh, she’s…” Spencer half-glances behind her and quickly recovers. “…indisposed. But we don’t have much time. I’m an inmate. We broke out to find my friend who’s been kidnapped by…something loose on the ship. I was hoping maybe you knew something about that.”

Ripley doesn’t blink or flinch or react at all, and still isn’t breaking her stare. There’s something hiding behind her eyes; Spencer can see it from this distance. Whether Ripley’s searching look is an accusation or a silent interrogation, Spencer isn’t sure. But there’s definitely more to this.

“Just how big are these ‘somethings’?” Ripley finally asks.

Spencer holds up her finger and thumb about an inch apart, high enough for Ripley to see through the window. There’s a noticeable relaxation when the gesture registers, as if Ripley had been scared of much worse.

“No,” Ripley says, turning away. “I don’t.” She lies back down and stares at the wall, adding, “Sorry,” as an afterthought.

Spencer takes a breath and steadies herself. “You’re lying.”

The traces of sympathy in Ripley’s voice are fading fast. “I haven’t stepped outside that door in a year and a half. What makes you think I’d know about anything happening on this ship?”

“We just killed a _dozen guards_ to get to you,” Spencer says. “I’m not leaving here without answers.”

Ripley turns back at this with renewed interest and sits up again to prop herself up on her hand. “We?” She pauses. “This is a low-security facility. There aren’t a dozen guards to kill.”

Spencer turns and calls, _“Hey,”_  behind her, motioning Lucy over. “Come say hi.”

The blood-covered face steps in front of the open window. “Hello, Ellen.” The friendly tone contrasts the ghastly sight of her; a perfect encapsulation of the walking paradox that has always been Lucy Fabray. “I hope you had a lovely holiday. We missed you.”

Standing and walking over to the window without a word, Ripley takes a closer look at Lucy, or as much of her as she can see through the small frame. The gut-splattered chainsaw is still firmly in hand. Her pink uniform is a solid maroon and crusty with stray bits of entrails.

“Looks like you’ve had a fun day,” Ripley says, dryly.

“I really have,” Lucy replies with a relaxed smile, like someone freshly rejuvenated after a nice long vacation.

Ripley looks at Spencer. “So, are you here to let me out or kill me?”

“That depends,” Spencer says. She’s back in the power position, where she feels most comfortable. Just like her mother. “Why do you kill people on Christmas? Not a fan of the holiday spirit?”

Ripley’s face flinches ever so slightly at the words. “I’ve never killed anyone,” Ripley says firmly.

Lucy raises an eyebrow with an air of superiority.

Spencer furrows her brow. “That’s not what I hear.”

“Maybe you’re talking to the wrong people. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“I don’t know, they seem pretty sure to me.” As do the forms in her file to back it up. “I’ve got names. Kennedy. Xena. Carmilla. The list goes on.”

“THEY’RE LYING.” With a quick step forward, Ripley gets in Spencer’s face angrily. “Do I look like a cold-blooded killer to you? Really?” The question bounces loudly throughout the metal corridor, echoing doubt and desperation as it travels.

_Please don’t make me answer that._

Clearly this interrogation is going to get heated if it’s going to be successful. Realizing the noise could draw more guards in their direction, Spencer says quietly to Lucy, “Go stand watch?” The blonde tightens the hold on her weapon and heads back toward the entrance without a word, casting one last glance at Ripley.

Spencer’s clearly trying Ripley’s patience, but that isn’t going to make her give up now. Her questions may be numbered. Hell, her _days_ – her _hours_ – may be numbered, especially if she keeps poking this caged bear. But at the same time, Spencer pauses at the emotion in the woman’s voice. Regret is written all over Ripley’s face, and Spencer can’t figure out what isn’t adding up. This doesn’t sound like a woman who relishes in murder, not like Lucy. No, Ripley seems devastated and hopeless, like she’s suffered and lost. She sounds broken. She doesn’t look at all like someone chomping at the bit to get out and kill people.

Maybe Ripley’s telling the truth, or maybe it’s all an act. Spencer doesn’t have much time to find out, so she’ll have to follow her instincts. She takes a large breath to steady herself. “Okay. Then, if you’re not a mass murderer, why are you in Solitary?”

“If I _were_ killing people on Christmas, why would Sue keep letting me out?” Ripley counters.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“And you didn’t think about mine. I’m not a criminal, I’m a prisoner. My ship, the _Nostromo_ , was attacked by an alien monster that eviscerated my entire crew.” (Spencer’s eyes go wide, but she is too terrified to interrupt.) “I was sent to the _Uterius_ under quarantine in the lab, but I was released after four weeks.”

“You know about the lab?” Spencer asks with renewed interest.

“Sometimes I can hear it,” Ripley says, and Spencer almost writes off the comment as the ramblings of an insane woman, but she adds, “It’s right below us.”

Spencer looks at the floor stupidly, as if she’d be able to see through the layers of metal paneling. But if Ripley’s right, she suddenly feels very uneasy standing here. There could be spiders crawling up through the vents as they speak.

“DYAD,” Ripley says. “Or at least it was back then.”

 _Twenty years ago_.

Spencer doesn’t know what a DYAD is, but any intel – even old intel – is a new lead to Quinn right now.

“They let me live like a person,” Ripley continues. “I was under watch, but I had actual quarters and real food. Then one day, the government sent the prison new leadership.” Her face makes it clear who she means. “Sue read my file and moved me here like it was nothing. Some bullshit about ‘unknown incubation periods’ and not trusting I wasn’t ‘a host waiting to hatch and destroy us all.’ It’d been _ten years_. I tried telling her the incubation period was a matter of days, even hours, but she wouldn’t listen. She was scared.”

Spencer can’t blame her. But, scared enough to fabricate a stack of false reports of violence just to keep Ripley locked away? It seems a bit extreme.

“I’ve never given her or anyone here reason to fear me,” Ripley says. “Sue’s keeping me in here because she doesn’t want to admit she was wrong. I think she was letting me out on Christmas as some kind of fucked-up apology. And now she doesn’t even do that anymore.”

“Why?” Spencer asks, simply.

“I don’t know. Something changed,” Ripley says. It’s clear she’s turned this same question over and over again in her mind. Maybe every minute for the last five months. “You’ve been here, what, a year?”

“Three months,” Spencer corrects, sounding a bit more sheepish than she’d like.

Ripley laughs at the idea of someone so green. “I’ve taken shits longer than that.” Spencer makes a face, but Ripley doesn’t back down. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

“So, tell me! Tell me what happens here! Because it’s happening to my friend Quinn _right now.”_  She doesn’t have time for this crap. Plus, who knows how much longer Lucy can hold out without killing something. “There are spiders on this ship, and I think you know where they come from, and you know that they take people in the night and eat them.” The look on Ripley’s face, complete shock and disbelief, tells Spencer she’s wrong, but she pushes anyway. “So how about you start telling me something useful, or we walk away and leave you here to keep rotting.”

“I don’t…I don’t know anything about that.”

“Don’t you?” Spencer presses. “You’ve been on this ship longer than anybody. You’ve got to know something!”

“I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking –”

“Do you think they’ll come kill you next if you talk? _We can stop them._ Just help us!”

“I don’t know about any spiders!” Ripley says firmly.

Spencer’s voice is rising now, too. “Yes, you do, I know you do. They’re hiding somewhere in this ship. Tell me where!”

 _“I don’t know_.”

_“TELL ME!”_

“I. DON’T. KNOW.”

Spencer’s fighting back tears. She bangs her fist on the door, screaming. “SHE’S GOING TO DIE.”

Ripley shouts, “WELL, SHE’S ALREADY GONE,” and slams her hand against the door hard, eyes blazing at Spencer.

Spencer’s blood runs cold. The buzzing of their voices reverberates through the cell and down the hall behind her before it gradually dies, but the words ring in Spencer’s ears over and over.

“Not your friend,” Ripley corrects quietly, a bit embarrassed by her outburst. “Mine. I don’t know anything about yours. I’m sorry.”

Air begins to flow again into Spencer’s lungs at this important clarification, and she closes her eyes for a moment, letting the relief and reinstatement of hope wash over her. It’s not over. Not yet. Quinn’s still alive. She has to be. Looking at Ripley again with renewed determination, she says, “Tell me about her,” hoping this gentler prompt might yield a useful response.

Ripley smiles bleakly, like everything is behind her and she knows her life is at its end. “Jenette was…everything. After losing my ship, my crew…myself. I found her. And every year, I had to choose. They _made_ me choose.”

“Choose what?”

“Who had to go,” Ripley says darkly.

The air in Spencer’s chest suddenly feels trapped.

“There’s an amnesty program in the space prison system,” Ripley explains. “To make room for new inmates. Because this is a low-security facility, anyone who’s been here at least two years with a perfect record of good behavior can be released early, regardless of the crime. One person at the end of each year.”

 _Oh._ She heaves a sigh of relief. It’s news to Spencer, but then, she hasn’t yet been here at a year’s end to find out if it’s legit. Still, it seems like good gossip that people would be talking about if it were a real thing.

“Every Christmas Eve, Sue comes and offers me the same deal. I can choose from the list of eligible candidates, or she can let Jenette go. If I choose from the list, I can spend Christmas with Jenette. But if I let her go, I don’t even get to say goodbye.”

Assuming this isn’t a steaming hot bowl of bullshit, Spencer’s mind reels at the thought of having to make this difficult choice not just once but over and over. To fixate on it every year, knowing it’s coming, and torture yourself with the various consequences of either decision.

“But, if she’s on the list, then what’s the issue?” Spencer asks, and Ripley laughs softly.

“She’s not. Jenette’s not exactly known for good behavior. That’s why she didn’t know it was even an option for her to leave. Most inmates forget it’s even a thing because there’s no way they can make it that long without a write-up. But Sue was going to shred her file and expunge her record, or at least that’s what she told me.” Ripley pauses for a moment before continuing. “I’ve made the same selfish choice for ten years, exchanging _ten years_ of a life she could’ve lived outside these walls, all so I could have ten afternoons of holding her.” It’s clear that Ripley is ashamed. It’s probably not something she’s told anyone out loud before. “But I guess Sue finally got tired of asking me, because I didn’t get the visit this year. Maybe Jenette got released after all. Maybe Sue told her I was the one keeping her here. She could’ve been vented, for all I know, because I haven’t heard anything about her all year.” She thinks for a beat. “Maybe your spiders ate her.”

Spencer’s eyes go wide, running down the list of bodies thus far.

_Jenette…_

“Wait, are you talking about Jenny Schecter?”

Ripley scowls. “No!” She seems offended by the implication. “Jenette Vasquez.”

… _OH._

“Vasquez,” Spencer repeats.

Ripley nods. She looks absolutely heart-broken.

“Vasquez is fine,” Spencer says with a _“What have you been smoking?”_  tone.

Ripley looks up, eyes filled with hope like Spencer’s never seen. “What?”

“She’s down the hall. I just saw her a few hours ago.”

“Are you sure?” Her voice is thick with hope and desperation.

“Short hair? Tough as nails? Obnoxiously arrogant? Yeah, she’s right down there,” Spencer says.

“Let me out,” Ripley commands.

“Not until you give me something I can use.” Spencer crosses her arms. Hastings aren’t heartless, but they’re not stupid either. This whole amnesty program thing could be a total ruse. Sure, maybe Ellen Ripley is the Mother Teresa of space prison. Or maybe the rumors are true and there’s a pile of bodies hidden in a closet somewhere. Spencer’s seen stranger things today.

Ripley leans forward with her hands on the door, hiding her eyes against her shoulder. It’s clear she’s only barely holding her shit together at this point. “I have to see her. Please. Will you at least get her?”

Spencer had to give credit to Sue – this was clearly some powerful leverage.

“Tell me how to get to the lower level,” Spencer says. “That’s where we think she is, but we can’t find the stairs.”

Ripley’s caught between excitement and despair. “I don’t know where the stairs are, but _I can help you_. Take me to Vasquez. We’ll help you look.”

Now it’s Spencer who shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” She pauses to consider her options. “I go get Vasquez, and if she backs up your story, _then_ I let you out.”

“No, you can’t tell her about Sue and the choice. I can’t…” Ripley gathers her composure as best she can. “Don’t make me tell her what I’ve done.” Looking through Spencer with hollow eyes, she says, “She’s all I have to live for.”

It seems sincere, and Spencer gets it. After only three months, she’d sell out a lot of people in this place for the chance to spend an afternoon with her friends again. And just like Spencer has this mission, this mystery, this drive within her to figure out just what the hell is going on in here, everyone needs something to keep them going.

She sighs and looks Ripley over one more time. She could just walk away and not risk it; chalk up another dead end. She’s already given Ripley the gift of knowledge that the love of her life is alive and close. Hope is priceless in a place like this. But Spencer can do more for her, and she knows it. At this point, no one else is looking out for them. They only have each other. And breaking her spirit won’t put Spencer’s back together.

It’s time to start trusting yet another potential mass-murderer. Spencer wonders how long this pattern is going to continue before she’s caught on the wrong side of it.


	48. Reunited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It takes both Spencer and Lucy to slide back the heavy, metal bar across the cell door, and it screeches loudly as it moves. But then Ripley steps out of the small room and takes a breath of fresh air, her eyes full of life.

_“Hey! Let me out!”_

The voice is coming from the third Solitary cell, the one on the left side that Spencer didn’t check. The door shakes as a fist pounds on the other side, echoing a series of _booms_ throughout the narrow hallway. Spencer jumps and looks to Ripley for a sense of just how scared she should be. Was this third person listening to their entire conversation? Could she know something that could help?

Ripley reaches over and flips up the visor to peer into the cell. “Shut up and sit down. Nobody cares about your tampon wrapper decoupage.”

Spencer stumbles, “S-should we…”

“No,” Ripley says quickly, letting the flap drop shut and walking off. “I’m sick of her.”

More banging on the door. _“Hey! Goddamnit, Ripley! LET ME OUT OF HERE!”_

“GOODBYE, MARTHA,” Ripley shouts over her shoulder, grabbing Spencer by the arm and pulling her from Solitary as fast as she can. “Let’s go.”

Grabbing the key from the lock and shoving it into her sock, Spencer barely gets a hold of her sledgehammer before she’s yanked away from the dull and distant pounding. “I’m Spencer,” she calls to Ripley as they run. “In case you…give a damn.” Her voice trails off at the end as Ripley gets out of shouting distance, oblivious.

They run to the end of the hall where they left Mack and Donna, and the scene is not at all what Spencer expects to find, save the bloody corpse of the guard nearby. The pile of body parts certainly gets Ripley’s attention, but it’s the least of Spencer’s concerns.

Mack is still curled up on the floor, crying and screaming, and Donna’s standing nearby. Lucy’s a few feet away, facing the empty hallway on guard as if nothing’s happening behind her.

“OH, THANK BLOODY GOD,” Donna says. She looks like she’s at her wit’s end. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her! It’s like she _likes_ it!”

Coming around to the other side of them, Spencer can now see the situation clearly. Mack’s got the dead guard’s baton, holding both hands around one end of it. The other end is pressed firmly between her legs. Mack’s body convulses, back arching off the floor as she howls in agony.

“I’m _really_ not comfortable with this!” Donna pleads loudly, but Mack just keeps screaming through her tears.

Spencer doesn’t know what to do, either. It looks like the baton is producing some kind of electric current, and she doesn’t want to get shocked, herself. Thankfully, after a few seconds, Mack drops the baton to the ground, spent. Spencer kicks it away and leans down to check on her. Mack’s face is wet with tears and her body is weak, but she’s alive and conscious. Still, she’s in no condition to fight spiders, much less go with them.

“You did this?” Ripley asks Lucy, pointing to what’s left of Cara.

“It was a rush job,” she replies, a bit defensively. “The others are much better.”

“Donna,” Spencer says, “this is Ripley. She’s here to help. I need you to do me a favor and take her back down the hall to the bathrooms and get her a quick shower. Lucy can go with you and stand watch. She knows the way.”

“There’s time for showers now?” Donna says with an air of arrogance, but then she takes a closer look (and sniff) at Ripley and retracts her objection. “Right. Yeah.”

“I know the way,” Ripley says like she doesn’t need a chaperone.

“There could still be guards,” Spencer says. “And I want someone I trust to stay with you.” She meets Lucy’s eyes.

“I thought you cleared this level,” Ripley says.

Spencer drops the sledgehammer in case this is going to take a while. “We’re not sure. They keep coming. It’s like they’re clones or something. So, we don’t know how many there are or if we’ve killed them all.”

“Jenette and I are going after Sue,” Ripley says. “I know where her office is.”

“She’s not there.” Spencer shakes her head. “Cleaned it out hours ago.” Ripley deflates a bit. “But we’ll find her. You help us fight and find Quinn, we’ll help you find Sue.”

“Can I get a weapon?” Ripley asks.

“Take her crossbow.” Spencer pulls a very tired and weak Mack to her feet, wrapping an arm around Mack to support her weight. “Hand me that?” she says to Ripley and points to the sledgehammer on the ground. “Thanks.”

“Where’d you get these, anyway?” Ripley asks.

Spencer takes a breath. “A friend.”

“So, what about you, then?” Donna asks her.

“I’m going to find Faith and get _her_ back to the cell,” says Spencer, nodding to Mack. “Meet us there in ten minutes.” She looks to Ripley. “Then I’ll take you to Vasquez.”

Ripley nods and looks to Lucy and Donna, then starts toward the east hallway.

Spencer readjusts Mack’s torso on her shoulder and stumbles slightly, tripping over the sledgehammer sliding alongside her left foot. She doesn’t know how she’s going to get very far with all this weight dragging her down, but she has to. For Quinn.

It’s been at least two hours since they first left cell 1, and now they’re moving even slower than ever. Even with the breakthrough at the garbage chute, it feels like they keep getting further from Quinn, not closer. Spencer and Mack shuffle along and get about halfway down the hall alongside the cafeteria when Spencer hears it – another Boomer running right toward them.

Spencer says, “Sorry,” to Mack and drops her to the ground, taking the fifty-pound sledgehammer firmly in both hands and winding up. She tries to time her swing correctly, but it’s slow to move, tired as her arms are now, and Spencer misses Boomer completely. Her body is thrown forward with the momentum and she stumbles to the ground.

“You really think that’s going to work,” Boomer says, kicking Spencer in the gut hard and reaching for something on her belt.

Spencer coughs and winces at the ache and what must surely be a broken rib, weakly sputtering, “Where’s Quinn?” But Boomer says nothing, and suddenly Spencer’s entire body is on fire with electricity emanating from between her legs.

She’s never felt pain like this in her life.

Every nerve in her body is screaming, and she tries to cry out, but no sound comes. Time stops, and all she knows is suffering beyond imagination, hurt that will never relent and never release her.

Then, Spencer hears a distant _oof,_ and the voltage stops coursing through her. The world snaps back, if fuzzy and distant. Spencer doesn’t know how long she’s been lying here, maybe only seconds, but it’s more than enough to wipe her out. She jolts with aftershocks, barely able to open her eyes, but she manages to focus enough to see the wire hooked to her crotch, stretching to the hands of Boomer, who is now on the ground. Mack’s kneeling over her and slamming her elbow into Boomer’s face, stomach, and chest one slow body drop at a time. The guard’s barely conscious and only moving in reaction to Mack’s assault.

Spencer reaches down and unhooks the metal claw from her body through the jumpsuit, delicately, then fights to sit up, nauseated and weak and aching everywhere. She remembers when this happened to Quinn, how that attack lasted for a very long ten seconds or so and it fucked Quinn up for days. Spencer has no choice but to somehow get off this floor.

Quinn took that agony for her, and Spencer will be damned if she doesn’t fight for Quinn now.

She digs deep within herself, drawing strength from how very, very angry she is. Angry this is happening, angry about Quinn, angry they can’t find her, angry at her mother, angry at _everything_. She pulls herself to stand, reaches slowly for the sledgehammer, and lifts it as high as her chest before it falls out of her hands, right onto Boomer’s bloody face.

The cracking noise her skull makes is pleasantly familiar and every bit as satisfying as the last time.

“Come on,” Spencer breathes in a dry whisper to Mack, who nods, and they help each other back on their feet.

They’re making even less progress now that Spencer’s had the life knocked out of her, but they eventually make it to the end of the hall by the entrance to the cafeteria and the library.

_“Anybody got a cigarette?”_

Faith comes strolling out from the direction of the cell block, looking like the cat who caught the canary, and then her face immediately drops when she sees Mack and Spencer. “Whoa, who ran you two over?” She runs up to them and checks for serious injuries but finds none.

“Boomer,” Spencer says. It hurts to talk, but her nerves have mostly stopped spasming now, so she’s regaining control over her body and can almost walk right. Almost.

“Shit,” Faith says, reaching out to support her.

Spencer blinks through the weakness and pain, trying to regain a sense of normalcy and control. “We gotta get Mack back to her cell.”

“Wait, where’re the others?” Faith asks, looking around. She clearly is worried the answer to that is, ‘They’re dead.’

“They’re with Ripley. I told them to meet us there.”

_“Too late for that.”_

It’s Lucy.

Ripley and Donna are following right behind her, exiting the showers, not twenty feet from where Faith’s standing. Spencer now notices the very bloody pile of what must have been another Boomer by the door. She wonders how all of those separated parts ever once constructed a whole human.

“Where’s Vasquez,” Ripley says, wringing some water out of her hair. Her uniform is dripping wet, like she just wore it right into the shower. Still, a vast improvement.

“Fifteen,” Spencer says.

Ripley walks over to Mack, picks her up, and slings her over her shoulder like a sack of flour. Spencer’s eyes widen at the display of strength, but Ripley just says, “Let’s go.”

They’re moving more quickly now, and they enter the back end of the cell block, where the TARDIS is standing outside the empty cell 1.

Ripley gives it a curious look as she passes by, but doesn’t stop to ask questions.

_“Faith!”_

It seems cell 1 isn’t vacant after all. Spencer turns to see a very tired, _very_ pissed Buffy climbing out of what used to be Santana’s bunk, holding a hand against the side of her head. The guard’s uniform is torn down the front, and she’s stumbling as she walks. It’s clear that Faith must have knocked her unconscious, dragged her into the cell, and locked her there.

It seems as good an idea as any right now.

A few prisoners step back from the cell bars as the group walks through, saying things like _“Oh shit, it’s Ripley!”_

But Ripley doesn’t seem to hear them. She’s running ahead, still carrying Mack, watching the numbers above the cells just like Spencer had done earlier today, trying to get to Quinn.

It feels like that was a lifetime ago.

They pass the bloodbath in cell 8, where Kat still hasn’t moved from the dark back corner. The entire floor is flooded red. Spencer feels awful for what happened, but there isn’t time to dwell on that now.

“Hey, wait! Stop at ten,” Spencer calls out to Ripley, who’s about to run past it. They backtrack and Spencer meets them, slightly out of breath.

Aphasia jumps down and shimmies the door open, saying, “What the hell! She dead?!” as Ripley carries Mack inside. Lucy and Donna stay back to give their fallen comrade some space.

“She’s fine,” Spencer insists. “She just needs to rest. We’re still looking for Quinn. Everyone’s fine.” Turning to Ripley, Spencer says, “Go. I got this.”

Aphasia watches her leave without asking any questions about why the prison’s most notorious murderer just brought her cellmate in unconscious. She takes a deep breath and says, “She need anything? I got all kinds of drugs and stuff.” When Spencer’s head whips around, Aphasia clarifies, “from the Infirmary.” It’s clear from her tone that she’s still pissed at Spencer, but they’re meeting on common ground right now. For Mack’s sake, of all people.

“Maybe? If you’ve got painkillers, that could help, but she’ll have to wake up first. For now, just stay with her and keep an eye on her.” Spencer heads back out quickly, then stops at the door and turns around. “Thanks.” She meets Aphasia’s eyes with sincerity. They’d all be long dead if she hadn’t had that stash of weapons. But it’s too early to start handing out congratulations, not when Quinn is still MIA. There are still too many unknowns. “Hey –” Spencer takes one step back inside as her eyes trail down to the floor. “Quick thing.” She pauses and considers her words. “You had my file. When I first got here.”

That’s struck a nerve. Aphasia tuts and looks around like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Here you go again with more paperwork bullshit. This is not a good look for you.”

“I just found it in Umbridge’s office,” Spencer says. “Was that the same one? Did you put it back?”

“Yeah,” Aphasia says, staring her down hard. “It was boring. _You_ are boring.”

Spencer’s trying not to get emotional again; she’s already appeared weak in front of Aphasia far too much today. Meeting her eyes once again, Spencer pushes through as the hurt and frustration take over. “But you read it.” _You knew._ _You said I had “Mommy issues.”_ _You knew who put me here._ “You had it, and you never let me read it.”

Aphasia’s expression softens ever so slightly. “Like I said. It was boring.” She waits a beat and then clarifies, “I guess I didn’t think there was anything in it you would want to know.”

A quiet moment of understanding passes between them. Aphasia didn’t lie to Spencer as much as protect her from an ugly truth. Spencer takes a deep breath and wipes her eye with the heel of her hand. “Yeah. Okay.” Enough conversation, enough wasted tears on her betrayer. “I’ll be back with her soon,” she says and takes off again. But in that moment, Spencer doesn’t know if she means Quinn or her mother. Maybe both.

Spencer sees Ripley stopped up ahead in front of what must be cell 15. She’s facing the cell door and covering her hand with her mouth, overcome with emotion.

Vasquez is out of sight, but her voice is unmistakable. “Holy fuck.” She runs up to the bars and Ripley meets her there in what looks to be a very passionate, very unhygienic kiss.

Spencer’s truly moved by the display -- hands reaching through the bars, grabbing at hair and jumpsuits, trying to get as close to each other as they can.

“Get this goddamn door open!” Vasquez shouts.

“Oh! On it!” Donna says, running up and fishing for the sonic screwdriver in her jacket.

But before she can find it, Spencer sees Hermione walk up behind Vasquez. She had no idea they were cellmates, and it seems like quite a bizarre match. Reaching out a hand, Hermione says, “Hold on,” and pulls Vasquez away from Ripley. In the same motion, she twists Vasquez’s arm and there’s a loud _CRACK!_   Instantly, Hermione and Vasquez disappear and reappear on the other side of the bars with an identical _CRACK!_

Donna blinks. “Or…”

And now with nothing separating them, Vasquez and Ripley are back in each other’s arms, fully this time, and it’s clear to Spencer that Ripley has been telling the truth, at least about her love for Vasquez. Spencer needs an army, and if this gives them another fighter in the battle, then all the better, especially with Mack out of commission.

“What are you doing here?” Vasquez asks.

“They got me out.” Ripley gestures to Spencer and the team with a grateful smile.

Vasquez looks at Spencer in disbelief. _“Bee-Stings_ broke you out of Solitary?”

Spencer furrows her brow at the nickname and glances down at her chest.

_They’re not THAT small._

“We’ve taken out eleven guards so far,” Spencer says in her defense.

“Twelve,” Faith corrects with a wink.

“There are spiders living in the ship,” Ripley says, looking to Spencer, showing she believes her story. “They took her girl.”

“No shit?” Vasquez sounds a little scared, or at least what probably qualifies as “scared” from someone this badass.

“They took _my sister_ ,” Lucy corrects, sternly.

“Pink?” Vasquez says.

“I’m going to help them find her. Hopefully, I can take out Sue in the process. You in?” Ripley asks.

“Lead the way,” Vasquez grins, reaching for another heated kiss.

“You’ll need a weapon,” Spencer says when they finally break away. “Come on.”

The group moves back toward cell 10, joined by Vasquez and, it seems, Hermione. Spencer wonders how Aphasia’s going to handle that news. From the look on her face as they step into view, not particularly well.

“Hi,” Hermione says, quietly, stepping out of the shadows.

Spencer wants to give them their moment, but they’ve already lost so much time. “Hey, I’m sorry to even ask, but do you have any more weapons? Vasquez needs something.”

Aphasia sighs, then lifts the mattress and rummages around inside. She digs deep with one arm, reaching to what must be the bottom of the pit, and winces to grab something far down. Then, she pulls out an absolutely gigantic weapon that Spencer can only guess is a...bazooka? Grenade launcher?

 _“Sweet,”_  Vasquez says, stepping inside to take it. She faces the back of the cell and pulls the trigger. A huge stream of flames bursts from the end, roaring loudly, and chars the back wall in black as she oscillates left and right. The toilet paper roll still burns orange after she stops. “Bitchin’.”

Spencer has stopped wondering just how Aphasia has acquired all these items and is simply grateful that these spiders are going to be really fucking dead.

Aphasia looks at Spencer’s accessory and says in disbelief, “Damn, you still carrying that thing around?”

“Yep,” Spencer says, groaning as she lifts the very, very heavy sledgehammer once again, “Remind me to switch to a golf club next time I go on a murder spree.” She drags her tired ass out into the hall, moving aside to let Hermione pass.

Once Spencer’s out of sight, Aphasia’s mood changes suddenly as she sees she’s now left alone with the final visitor -- Hermione. Spencer hangs back just outside the door, her curiosity getting the best of her.

It seems Hermione’s every bit as unsure how to navigate the situation as her girlfriend is. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

There’s an awkward silence, then Aphasia gestures beyond the bars and says, “She coulda just asked for a golf club. I got three of ‘em.”

 _Goddamnit_ , Spencer thinks, but it’s too late to do anything about it. No trade-ins for eavesdropping liars.

A beat passes. “Do you have it?” Hermione asks.

Aphasia bites her lip and steels her expression, but it’s clear she’s having trouble pretending to be okay. There’s nothing Aphasia can say, so she just reaches back under the mattress. She doesn’t have to dig, or even look, this time. She knows right where it is.

Hermione reaches to take the long, wooden wand, and Aphasia doesn’t let go right away, letting both their hands rest for a moment on opposite ends, inches apart. Spencer wonders how many layers to this moment there really are -- how long Aphasia’s been keeping it from her, how Hermione really feels about that, how many times they’ve been through this. If it gets easier each time, or that much harder.

If Aphasia knows how just easily Hermione can teleport herself out of her cell to anywhere she wants, yet she never comes here.

“Thanks,” Hermione says softly, and Aphasia finally releases her grip. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

Aphasia shakes her head. “Somebody needs to be here in case Quinn comes back. And I gotta watch the stuff,” She shrugs half-heartedly. “You know.”

Ripley comes up behind Spencer and pulls her aside quietly. “I thought maybe Jenette would know a way downstairs, but I’m sorry, she doesn’t.”

_Shit._

“But all we need is one guard,” Ripley continues. “We can make her talk.”

Spencer immediately looks back down the hall toward cell 1. “I think that can be arranged. Come on.”

Ripley joins Vasquez, Faith, Lucy, and Donna a few cells down the hall, heading back the way they came. Spencer looks back to thank Aphasia again for her help before she goes, only to discover she’s interrupting.

Hermione steps onto the edge of the bed so she’s eye-level with Aphasia and kisses her, pulling her in with one hand firmly gripped on the collar of Aphasia’s uniform. It’s firm and intense, and Aphasia seems surprised by the move. But then she appears to accept what’s happening and relaxes to melt into the kiss.

When Hermione breaks away, she hovers an inch from Aphasia lips, their foreheads touching, and whispers, _“I’ll come back for you. I promise.”_

Then, as quickly as she made her move, Hermione turns and charges out of the cell to catch up with the group. She’s startled to see they had an audience, but Spencer gives her a supportive, pursed smile as they walk together toward the distant shapes of their friends.

“Did you want a weapon?” Spencer asks Hermione as they pick up the pace.

“I have one.”

_If you say so._

There’s some movement happening down at the end of the hall, members of the group looking in the cell and talking to each other. It seems the Buffy interrogation has already started without her.

But then Spencer sees the open door. And the empty cell.

“What happened?!” she says, slowing to a halt behind Vasquez and Lucy.

“Looks like _someone_ didn’t take her keys,” Donna says, glaring at Faith.

“Hey, I never saw any keys,” Faith says, crossing her arms.

“Did you check _outside_ her vagina?” Spencer snaps back. She runs a hand through her hair and tries to keep her cool. Just when she thought they had a functional plan in place…

“Hey, who knows if she even had keys in the first place,” Faith says.

“So,” Spencer asks, “she just let herself out of a locked prison cell?”

“Girl’s wicked strong,” Faith shrugs.

Spencer remembers that, for better or worse, it’s not as hard to break out of this place as previously thought. Aphasia does it. Hermione does it. Now, with Donna’s help, they’ve done it. Even tiny cheerleaders can do it.

“Okay, fine. So, we go after her, right?” Spencer asks. “You gave her a concussion; she couldn’t have gone far. Maybe if we can catch up to her, we can follow her to this secret staircase or whatever.”

“Bet she’s going right to Sue,” Vasquez says, leaning the flamethrower against her shoulder.

They quickly decide to split up and do a lap of the ship, meeting back here with their intel. Hermione, Vasquez, and Ripley head down the cell block and Donna, Lucy, Faith, and Spencer take the classes hallway. But even at a jogging pace, they reach the hallway’s end with no sign of her. Running faster, they check the dead end past Sue’s office and circle back.

The other group’s already waiting for her. “Anything?” Spencer pants as they reach the TARDIS.

They all just shake their heads. “No trace,” says Ripley.

“How can she just be _gone_?” Spencer says, pacing in frustration. “We’re trapped in _space_. People can’t just _disappear_.”

“Well, actually – “ Hermione starts, but stops at Spencer’s glare.

“D’you think we can find any more of these Boomer types?” Donna asks. “Make one of them talk?”

“We didn’t see any on the west end,” Ripley says, looking to the others for confirmation.

“Neither did we,” Lucy says with a hint of regret. Though, she’s probably sad about it for different reasons.

“Then, we keep looking. And there’s something I want to show you,” Spencer says to Ripley. “I think I know where the spiders take their kills. This way.”

They squeeze by the TARDIS and reach the main intersection again, passing the showers, where lies one of the many littered corpses Lucy’s left in her wake.

“Daaaaamn!” Vasquez says, slowing down to examine the stacked remains.

“Thank you,” Lucy beams.

“Keep moving,” Ripley says, and starts heading up the classes hallway, but Spencer calls to her to stop. The group’s standing at the entrance to the southern hallway and gesturing for her to follow.

But Ripley doesn’t seem keen on going any further back in the direction of Solitary.

“There’s a garbage chute behind the kitchen,” says Spencer.

“Yeah, we passed it on the way out,” Ripley confirms.

“We need to figure out where it goes and what’s in it.” Spencer pauses for a beat and winces. _“Who’s_ in it.”

Without another word, Ripley starts walking, the rest filing in behind. Spencer retraces her steps where that asshole Boomer tasered her, and she moves a little faster, strengthening her resolve. She looks in all directions as they walk, just in case there’s another hidden gem like the gravity control panel, but there doesn’t seem to be anything on this hallway other than a locked custodial closet.

When they reach the clearing, Spencer runs up to the garbage chute and says to everyone, “Hold your breath.” Yanking the handle open all the way, she looks down into the darkness once more, as if something would have changed in the last half hour. It hasn’t. “I can’t see what’s down there,” she says, pinching her nose.

“Here, let me,” Hermione says, making her way forward through the group. She stands on the opposite side of the open hatch from Spencer, leaning over to look inside. “It’s hard to see with this door in the way,” she says and stands on her tiptoes to get a better view. Reaching her wand to point down the shaft, Hermione says, _“Lumos!”_ and Spencer jumps as the chute lights up with a white glow.

“Whoa!”

“Much better,” Hermione says and starts moving the wand around for the best angle.

The wand is suddenly a flashlight of sorts, and Spencer doesn’t know how in the hell Hermione’s doing it. But for that matter, she doesn’t know how the girl teleports any damn time she feels like it or what _else_ that wand can do, so she’s not going to start asking questions now.

“Oh my god,” Spencer says, looking down once more and covering her mouth with her hand, fighting back the tears.

She’s never been so unhappy to be right.


	49. Another Room Without a View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Quinn Fabray opens her eyes.

The room is just as white and weird as it was when Sue locked her in here last night. Quinn would’ve been more apprehensive about being locked in a room, but, well. She _is_ still in prison. And this room, whatever it is, is a step up in that department, even if it’s a strange step.

It appears to be a child’s room, maybe for a six-year-old girl. The bed is small and lined with a pink blanket and lace pillow. A metal bookcase stretches halfway up the wall on the far side of the room, but it’s mostly empty. A few scattered large print children’s books sit tattered and worn with no sense of organization. Quinn doesn’t recognize any of the titles, mostly basic information texts about animals and weather and simple machines. An art gallery fills the wall space between the bookshelf and the corner, old faded drawings with child scrawl across the bottom. They provide some much-needed color against the bright white walls. But the large square tile pattern makes the room feel more like a padded cell than Quinn’s comfortable with.

Why a prison has a kid’s room, she doesn’t know, and she doesn’t really care. Maybe Sue had a daughter once and she grew up and moved out. But then, considering the room seems frozen in time, it’s unlikely.

_Maybe her daughter died? Almost makes me feel bad for her._

There are a few trinkets here and there, but nothing that holds Quinn’s interest for more than a passing moment. In fact, she’s entirely bored. There’s a small turntable with some brightly colored plastic records, but it seems to be broken. The paint supplies in the cabinet are long since dried out. The reading material decidedly lacks a certain…something. She even cleaned up the mess from the gravity disruption last night simply for something to do.

Sue said it was just for a day at the most, but it’s hard to know just how long she’s been here without meal time and classes and Aphasia’s idiotic dancing during Power Hour. Besides, the days don’t seem to matter as much since Spencer got transferred out. Not that Quinn’s thinking about that.

Just like how she doesn’t think about Spencer when she crawls under the covers and drifts into unspeakable daydreams spelled out by skillful fingers.

At least, not here. Because this is a _child’s room_ and, even as bored as she is, that would simply be wrong.

But Quinn does it anyway, and caps it off with the final cigarette in her pack and then a nap. Quinn missed having a seat belt to get her through the long night and spent most of it trying to fall asleep against the ceiling. It didn’t work.

After what must be several mind-numbing hours (and forty-five more interesting minutes), the silence is broken by the rusty flap on the door. Sue’s hand reaches through and places a tray of food on the ground. It’s prison food, but maybe a little more than the usual servings. “Bon Appetit!”

Taking it to the miniature table and chairs in the corner, Quinn hosts her own very pathetic tea party. The stuffed dog in the opposite chair is staring at her. “Get your own food,” she says.

_I’m talking to a toy._

Mack would have a field day with this place.

She reaches over and turns the dog around, then feels even more ridiculous. Grabbing it roughly, she goes to throw it across the room, but her thumb brushes against the tag sticking out the back and she stops. There’s a name scrawled in faded red marker.

Quinn’s eyes go wide. She swallows the food she didn’t realize she’d stopped chewing and looks around with a heightened sense of concern.

_What the hell is going on here?_

****************

“Oh god,” Spencer cries. “They’re all dead. They’re all dead.”

With the light from Hermione’s wand, she can see the pile of bodies – well, _parts_ of bodies – clogging up the garbage chute.

 _“Who_ ’s dead?” Faith says. “What do you see?”

But it’s all too far away and too terrible. Spencer sees arms, faces, legs, all half-eaten and sticking out at weird angles. And blood. So, so much blood.

“I don’t know! It’s just a lot of _dead girls_.” The stress and exhaustion and fear has caught up to Spencer again, and she’s fighting to not lose her shit completely in the wake of this development. She managed to pull it together in the bathroom an hour ago, but that was before she saw what several of her friends’ insides looked like.

“Come on,” Lucy says sweetly, holding out her hands. “Let me see.”

“No!” Spencer snaps through her tears. “I have to find Quinn!”

The other six women look at her sympathetically, but no one argues.

“Can you see any pink hair?” Faith offers.

Spencer looks again. The light from the lower level is casting a golden glow on everything, and most of the body parts are too covered in blood, anyway. “I…I can’t tell. I don’t think so?”

“We have to be sure,” Lucy says quietly, holding tight to the handle of her chainsaw like a security blanket.

“I have an idea,” Hermione says. “But I have to turn off the light to do it. Is that okay?”

_Yes, please. I don’t ever want to see those horrible things again. Ever, ever, ever._

Spencer holds a hand over her mouth, turns away, and nods, squeezing her eyes shut tight.

Hermione gives her wand a swish and the light goes out. Then, pointing down the shaft again, she whispers, _“Wingardium Leviosa!”_  For a moment, nothing happens, Hermione just keeps her wand downward. But then, Spencer realizes it looks like she’s using it to do…something.

“What are you doing,” she says nervously.

“Almost…there…” Hermione strains, not wanting to break her concentration, and then finally her wrist shifts as she changes her angle.

A severed head appears at the top of the garbage chute, floating in mid-air. It’s gray and green and disgusting. One eye is missing, as is her entire left cheek and a large patch of hair on the right side.

It’s Paulie.

Spencer screams while the other simply jump back with scattered curses and a loud “whoa!”

 _“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”_  Spencer cries.

“You said you couldn’t see who they were,” Hermione replies matter-of-factly. “This way, I can bring them to you.”

“I DON’T _WANT_ YOU TO BRING THEM TO ME. I WANT THEM TO STAY WHERE THEY ARE.”

“Spence,” Faith cuts in, “I know this is fucked up, but it might be the fastest way for us to figure out if she’s down there. At least until we can find a way down, ourselves.”

Spencer crumples into a heap on the floor, pulling her knees into her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She buries her face between her knees and wonders how any of this is happening. How she’s in prison in space and her kleptomaniac cellmate’s wizard girlfriend is floating the severed heads of her friends out of the garbage.

She just wants to go home and not know _any_ of this.

But she can’t.

She can never go home again.

She can only go forward. She just doesn’t want to anymore.

Her face still buried in darkness, she hears Lucy say, “That’s not her. Try another one.”

_“Wingardium Leviosa.”_

_This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening._

A long thirty seconds later, Faith says, “Shit, that’s Vause.” Spencer can hear her pacing nearby.

“Fuck,” Vasquez concurs. “This is sick.”

“See if you can find a foot that’s missing a toe,” Faith says, and Spencer looks up to shoot her a glare. “What! I’m helping!”

A few pulls later and still no Quinn. Aeryn Sun, Stacey Merkin, some blonde Spencer didn’t know. “I’m running out of heads,” Hermione says. “There’s one at the bottom but I can’t quite reach it. But I think it has long hair.”

“Leave it,” Spencer says. “It’s not her. Quinn’s not here. That means she’s alive. Let’s get out of here.” Without another word, Spencer stands up, wipes the back of her hand across her face, and pulls herself together.

“Let’s go find ourselves a Boomer,” says Faith, cracking her knuckles.

With a loud bang, Hermione lets the garbage chute slam closed, and Spencer hopes it can stay that way forever. As much as she wanted these spiders dead before, the feeling’s now increased exponentially.

She’s going to burn the little fuckers to the ground.

****************

Quinn hears the whining of the rusty door slot again but doesn’t bother looking up from her fifth reading of the blurbs on the plastic records’ sleeves. “How much longer do I have to stay here?”

But when she gets no reply, she glances over and sees no plastic tray, no Sue.

Just a swarm of black spiders scurrying one by one through the door slot, coming right for her.


	50. Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer and Faith lead the charge down the hallway, passing under the G-SPOT and ending at the library. Ripley and Vasquez follow close behind, weapons at the ready. Donna, Lucy, and Hermione bring up the rear; Spencer’s keeping the chainsaw massacre fiend at bay now that they want the guards alive.

Where’s an asshole when you need one?

At least now they have enough firepower and knowledge of the ship to cover ground faster. “Here,” Spencer says, “let’s split up. Vasquez, Ripley, Hermione, go back up through the cell block. Head right at the T and meet us in front of the engine room. We’ll come up the other side and head toward you. One of us is bound to find something. If we don’t make the rendezvous, come help us.”

“Copy that,” Ripley says, slinging the crossbow over her shoulder and splitting away from the group. Vasquez and Hermione peel off after her. The visual difference between Vasquez’s giant flamethrower and Hermione’s tiny wand is quite hilarious, but Spencer suspects it can hold its own.

“Okay,” she says to her original team of Lucy, Donna, and Faith, “Let’s go.” After a few steps, she turns again and says to Lucy, _“You_ stay in the back. Faith, up here.”

“I must say,” Lucy begins, “I’m surprised. Who knew you’d like giving me orders as much as taking them?”

Spencer tries to just let it slide. “Keep your eyes open.”

“Yes ma’am.”

They reach the Arms rooms, and still no sign of any guards. _“Shit,”_  Spencer mutters. She turns to Lucy, “Did you really have to kill _all_ of them?”

Lucy plants herself firmly in the spot and rests the chainsaw against her bloody uniform. “Yes,” she says plainly with her familiar air of sweetness. “I’m efficient.”

They trudge onward and reach the T-intersection on their side. They’re almost at the meeting point, and they haven’t heard any signs of action from down the hall. Which is both good and bad.

“This way,” Spencer leads, but Donna’s interrupting.

“Oi, Spencer, d’you think…um…is there a loo in that direction?”

Spencer turns and stares at Donna incredulously. “We just passed a bathroom back there.”

Donna huffs up and spits back, “Well, I didn’t need to go _back there_ , alright? It’ll just take a minute!” She starts to double back down the hall, but Spencer calls after her.

“Hey! No, you can’t do that.”

“The hell I can’t!”

“You can’t take off on your own,” Spencer corrects, angrily.

“I’ll go with her,” Faith offers.

But Spencer’s looking down the hall toward the docking bay. “It’ll take too long. They’ll think something’s wrong.” Looking around her 360 degrees, Spencer says, “Come on, I have another idea.”

She starts to the right down the side hall, in the opposite direction of the meeting point. “Hurry up!” she cries as the others lag behind.

A hundred feet down, just past the Processing room, they reach Sue’s office. “There’s a bathroom in here. Faith, help me clear the room?”

Faith nods and enters, knife at the ready. Spencer’s right behind with her sledgehammer, but the room’s just as empty as earlier that morning. “In there,” Spencer says to Donna, pointing to the door on the far side.

“Thanks,” Donna replies and heads inside. But before she can close the door, a loud voice crackles to life over the loudspeaker, echoing in the tiny office.

It’s Becky.

_“ATTENTION, GUARDS! REPORT TO THE CELL BLOCK **IMMEDIATELY**. PRISONERS ON THE LOOSE, I REPEAT, **PRISONERS ON THE LOOSE**. **NOW, BITCHES**!”_

The system shuts off with a _thunk_ , but the words still ring in Spencer’s ears. She, Lucy, and Faith exchange silent looks, all different versions of, _We are so fucked._

At the same time, it’s a little hard for Spencer to be too concerned when they’ve been roaming for three hours and killed every Boomer they’ve seen without suffering any casualties, themselves. If Buffy – who seemed much more concerned with banging an escaped prisoner than arresting her -- is the gold standard of outerspace corrections, they should be fine. But it’s still entirely possible that they’ve just been battling the pawns. Spencer has a feeling that the queen, Sue, will put up much more of a fight. Assuming they can even fucking find her. Becky wasn’t broadcasting from this office, so where the hell are they?

Donna calls through the closed bathroom door, “Spencer? I think you want to see this.”

Lucy smirks in that predatory way, and Faith just laughs and says, “Have fun,” then leans back comfortably in Sue’s large chair, propping her crossed feet on the desk.

Spencer approaches the wooden door and holds her face close to it. “Um,” she says awkwardly, “everything okay in there?”

The door flies open, and Spencer jumps, startled. Donna’s standing there fully clothed. She simply points to the wall behind the door and says, “D’you know about this?”

Spencer steps inside the small room, standing beside the toilet and sink so there’s room to close the door. Now she can see the far wall clearly. It’s metal with a split down the center and a single button panel off to the side.

An elevator.

“Holy shit.” They stare at it in awe. “Bingo.”

Spencer opens the door and quickly heads back into the office to tell Lucy and Faith the good news. “We just found our way down.”

Faith nods with pursed lips, trying to hold back her laughter. “Did you now?”

But the double entendre flies right over Lucy’s head. “Is it a stairs?”

Spencer makes a face at them. “No. Look, we have to get the others. They probably think we’re in trouble.”

Grabbing her eighty-pound sledgehammer off the desk, Spencer takes off down the hall, the echo of the other’s footsteps close behind.

Now there’s the distant sound of new footsteps ahead as she gets closer, but a quick glance down the classrooms hallway confirms it’s still empty. They continue running full speed until they reach the front atrium where Ripley’s waving an arm in the air and holding a finger over her mouth. Behind her, Vasquez and Hermione are using the curved wall as cover and peering around it.

There’s also a pile of three or four dead guards with arrows through their heads.

_So much for pumping them for information._

“It’s fine, Ripley,” Hermione says, “They can’t hear us. Just stay out of sight.” Then, Hermione pulls her wand and points it around the wall, whispering, _“Muffliato.”_

There’s a rising clamor of shouts and banging on bars coming from the cell block, as if something’s riling up the prisoners.

“What’s going on?” Spencer says quietly, approaching Ripley as the others catch up to her and file in behind. “D’you hear the announcement?”

“Guards. Must be two dozen.”

“What?!” Spencer says. Her mind is spinning. How could they have already killed _ten_ and there are still twice as many left to go? She rushes over to see. There in the T-intersection of the hallway is the first Boomer corpse Lucy sliced as well as the second one that came later, and the giant pool of blood the fugitives repeatedly walked through. It was really quite the mess. But now, there are new footprints from the large group of guards gathering in the north half of the cell block. Spencer’s having trouble counting them, perhaps because they’re all exactly identical. “Where did they—” she begins, but then the question is answered for her.

There’s a door, right there at the intersection. As it’s pushed open by another guard emerging, Spencer can see the faint _BARRACKS_ sign on it.

Hermione points and whispers, _“Muffliato,”_  again, but Spencer barely hears it. She’s just staring at the door.

It’s been there the whole time. They passed it over and over again. They were simply too horrified by their own destruction to take in the full scene. They could’ve gone downstairs ten minutes into their adventure. Granted, they wouldn’t have even known to at the time, but still. If she learns they could’ve saved Quinn in time…

Spencer watches the door with fire in her blood. All this time it was abandoned and quiet. All those missed opportunities. And now there’s an endless stream of Boomers emerging like a clown car from Hell.

“Jesus,” Ripley whispers, watching them come one after another after another. “They’re like ants.”

“What are ants?” Lucy asks.

Just then, one of the guards starts walking toward them, and Spencer pulls back so she’s hidden behind the wall and leans against it, closing her eyes and covering her face with a hand.

_What are we going to do?_

Hermione furrows her brow in concentration and whispers, _“Confundo!”_  and then, a moment later, taps Spencer on the shoulder. “It’s alright. She walked off.”

“What?” Spencer stands back up. “How?”

“It’s a confusion charm. I simply made her forget why she was coming over here, so she went back. It’s worked…much of the time.” Hermione glances over to the pile of arrowed corpses with mixed emotions. “It’s a very difficult spell,” she justifies. “I’m doing the best I can.”

Spencer softens for a moment. “You’re…great. Thank you.” With a squeeze of Hermione’s arm, Spencer moves over beside Ripley and quietly asks, “What happened to trying to get information from one of the guards?”

“We never had the chance. We were lucky to already be around this corner before the door opened. Vasquez wanted to go back for one, but there were just too many and we were outnumbered.”

 _“Somebody knows something!”_  one of the guards is yelling in the cell block. _“They didn’t just escape on their own. Tell us where they are, and we won’t kill you.”_

Spencer hears the inmates hollering crude responses and kicking the bars. One distinct voice cuts through the noise.

 _“IT IS NOT OUR FAULT YOU ARE BAD AT YOUR JOB!”_  Jessica Huang shouts. _“PERHAPS YOU NEED MORE ONLINE TRAINING. YOU ARE EVEN WORSE THAN THE POLICE AT THE MALL!”_

“We can’t get downstairs that way,” Ripley says. “God knows how many are down there, and these’ll kill us before we even reach the door.”

“We found another way,” Spencer says, as Hermione casts another confounding charm. “There’s an elevator in Sue’s office.”

Vasquez and Ripley exchange looks. “That bitch,” Vasquez says. It’s clear there’s no shortage of hatred for the warden between these two.

Judging from the rising din coming from the hall, there’s enough hatred to go around. All these women on lockdown sound like they’re chomping at the bit to rip the guards in half. Spencer’s half inclined to let them.

“Okay, so, we make a run for it,” Faith says. “They won’t see us.”

“They could,” Vasquez counters. “And then we’re fucked.”

“For all we know,” Ripley points out, “some could’ve gone down the cell block already to come up the other side. We’ll be cornered. If we’re going, we need to move _now.”_

“But it still doesn’t solve the problem of when we come back up,” Spencer adds. “As much as I have faith in your skills,” she says to Lucy, “there are too many of them, and they’re armed. You can’t take them all. Not before they start killing the other inmates.”

“I’m quite capable of handling—”

“NO,” Spencer says. Her body still aches from the taser just an hour before. She won’t let that happen to any of her friends. If three or four of those fuckers attacked Lucy simultaneously, the current would kill her for sure. “The tasers…they’re…no.”

“So, I barbecue ‘em,” Vasquez says, taking hold of her flamethrower.

“No!” Spencer says, reaching out to stop Vasquez. “There’s no way you can be sure you won’t hit us.”

No more inmates are dying on Spencer’s watch _ever_ again. She takes a breath. “Remember, one taser and you’ll be down for the count. Trust me.”

“So, what then?” Faith asks the group. “We movin’ in or out?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Donna asks, trying to lighten the mood, but everyone turns to look at her incredulously. “We just have to ask the guards nicely to give us all their weapons first, _then_ we attack.”

The others huff in a weak attempt at laughter, but then Hermione says, “Hold on…I think I’ve got it.” She thinks for a moment, then says more confidently, “Yes, I can do this. Just be ready to run on my signal.”

Spencer swallows. Something tells her the shit is about to hit the fan, but Hermione’s proven herself a capable ally thus far. And really, Spencer’s out of better ideas. There’s nowhere else to run or hide, no other way out. The engine room door is just twenty feet away, but even if they could somehow get Raven’s attention without giving their position away, hiding in the engine room would simply leave them cornered. If the guards surrounded the door, they’d never make it out alive. This is a battle they going to have to face, and at least right now they still have the element of surprise.

“Stand back,” Hermione says, and holds her wand at the ready. Aiming it at the door, she whispers, _“Colloportus!”_  It slams shut on its own, and Spencer hears a locking sound.

_Holy shit._

Then, turning to the crowd of guards in the block, Hermione says, hushed by strongly, _“Accio taser!”_

Suddenly, one of the tasers flies right out of the nearest guard’s holster and into Hermione’s outstretched hand, fast as a pitched baseball.

_HOLY. SHIT._

“How did you do that?!” Spencer cries, but Hermione’s ignoring her. Casting the spell again and again, she’s unarming the guards one at a time, and they haven’t noticed. Even better, the ones who do are also under the confusion spell, so they quickly forget it.

Spencer doesn’t know how long it’s going to take, and surely one of them is going to see an item whizzing through the air before Hermione can get to all thirty or so. But it’s still better than nothing. Hermione’s leaning the odds in their favor. The pile of tasers at her feet is growing larger. Spencer starts handing them to Donna to put in her jacket pockets.

“These aren’t going to go off?” Donna asks, looking at the small black devices uneasily.

 _“Whoa!”_  one of the guards says, _“What the hell?_ _What was that?”_

“Shit,” mutters Hermione. “Okay, everyone ready?” she asks in a louder voice. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can. Wait for the signal.” Then, stepping out into the corridor, strong and alone, wand hand extended, she says, “Come and get me,” to the guards.

_WHAT?!_

Spencer looks around the corner and sees the bustle of the guards reaching for their tasers, though only half find anything. Hermione shouts, _“EXPELLIARMUS!”_  over and over, and Spencer sees one by one the tasers fly out of each Boomer’s hand and into a nearby cell. Then, when all the guards are weaponless, Hermione takes a deep breath and points her wand one more time, shouting, _“ALOHAMORA TOTALA_!”

Suddenly, a loud chorus of metal clanging sounds through the cell block as every single door unlocks simultaneously. Just as quickly, she says _“Colloportus”_  one more time, aiming with precision, though Spencer can’t see the target. Hermione lingers for a second, as if to be sure it worked, but Spencer pulls her out of view and urges her to get down.

It doesn’t take long for the prisoners to realize what’s happened, and they storm out with screeching war cries, firing the tasers at the crowd of helpless Boomers. In an instant, the angry mob turns the once peaceful cell block into a battlefield. It’s the perfect distraction for their getaway.

 _And, frankly,_ Spencer thinks, _these guards had it coming._

One by one, fireballs fly and set guards on fire in bursts of orange flame and blood-curdling screams. From her vantage point, Spencer sees Dark Willow emerge from cell 11, arms outstretched and eyes black as space. When one Boomer runs at her full speed, Dark Willow turns her hand, and the guard’s uniform rips clear off her body. Then, with another flick of her wrist, the guard’s skin flies off just as cleanly.

Spencer screams, and Hermione slaps her hand over her mouth.

_“Shhh! Do you want to get us killed?!”_

But no one heard Spencer over the sound of the war being waged in the cell block. Pent up aggression and years of goading is finally manifesting in the beatdown of the century.

Shaw’s running up the corridor all the way from cell 3, punching the life out of every guard in her path. Seeing this, Starbuck struts out of cell 6 with a shit-eating grin. “Looks like Christmas came early this year, ladies.” She joins in the fistfight action and barely misses getting kicked in the face by Alice, who snaps the neck of another guard like it’s nothing. Nearby, the two Sarah Connors stand back to back, fighting in tandem and watching guards fall like dominos.

Poussey and Suzanne seem to have their own system that involves a lot of hair-pulling and clawing skin, and Spencer’s pretty sure she just saw a chunk of flesh get ripped off one guard’s face. Big Boo, meanwhile, is sitting on one Boomer’s head (suffocating her?) while Johanna and Nichols kick and punch her in the crotch and stomach, shouting vulgar taunts and slurs that would make even Lucy Fabray blush. On Nichols’s signal, Big Boo stands up and drops her full weight on the guard’s face, knee first, in a bodyslam that no one could survive.

Spencer almost feels bad for that one. Almost.

Something catches her eye – a taser floating high above the crowd and floating right into the hands of Violet. Looking back, confused, she sees Donna feeding tasers back to Hermione, who’s using her _Wingardium Leviosa_ spell to deliver weapons to the more dignified inmates. As a result, Regina, Lucy Diamond, Root, and a handful of others are having what looks like the time of their lives. They’re talking amongst themselves, comparing notes for what happens when you connect the current to various body parts – eyes, tongue, nipples, crotch – as if this isn’t a bloody battle but just another day that ends in Y.

Root has never looked happier. Her smile’s glowing brighter than the sparks emanating from the guards’ mouths. Jessica Huang, with a taser in each hand, is giving one Boomer a very terrible day. Flaca and Maritza are jumping up and down on fallen guards like monkeys on a bed. Sophia’s in the fight as well and kicking serious ass, though she doesn’t seem to be particularly enjoying it. She knocks out another guard with a solid punch and shakes out her hand, like the whole thing is a big inconvenience in her day. Spencer sees Vee walking up and down the cell block, as if overseeing the whole operation. She gives Jessica a heads up when another guard approaches, then encourages Tastee to start searching the bodies.

River Tam, though, is surprisingly the most capable fighter here. Her grace, skill, and prowess makes the others look like clumsy toddlers. As River twirls and kicks and chops, Spencer’s mesmerized. It’s like ballet, but with killing.

_Killet!_

Oh yes, Spencer has no doubt her people will prevail here. The inmates simply want it more. This is their Bastille Day. And with each fallen Boomer, they have the guards more and more outnumbered, as long as that door stays locked.

But then, if it came to it, there are certainly more weapons the prisoners could use in Apha---

Spencer scans the crowd, but Aphasia’s nowhere to be seen. Her eyes find cell 10, and there she is, clutching the bars and yelling obscenities through the bars, cheering on her friends. It’s the one door still closed.

_Hermione protected her. Of course. That must’ve been the locking spell she fired._

Aphasia’s proven she can break out of the cell any time she wants, but Spencer’s willing to bet this spell’s strong enough to keep her in. With Mack lying unconscious on the bunk as well, she’s grateful no one’s getting in there. Spencer has to marvel at how damn smart and capable Hermione is.

But then, as if on cue, the Barracks entrance opens again and five more guards begin storming out, tasers at the ready.

“Shit,” Hermione curses. “I didn’t mean _all_ the doors!” The noise catches one’s attention, and Hermione and Spencer aren’t able to hide in time. The new guards turn away from the fray and instead come charging toward them.

Hermione pushes off the floor and yells, “NOW!”

The others take off running back toward Sue’s office, clutching their weapons and trying not to slip on all the blood on the floor. Spencer leaps over the pile of bodies and grabs her sledgehammer, looking back to be sure her new friend is coming, too. Hermione’s right behind her and fires _“Colloportus!”_  again as she runs, but neither of them seems confident that it found its target. They exchange a silent look that says, _We’ll just have to hope. There’s nothing we can do now._

Hermione then fires off _“Stupefy!”_  several times, an offensive spell that’s attacking the three Boomers on their tail, slowing them down significantly.

“RUN!”

Spencer sees who Hermione’s yelling at – up ahead of them, Lucy’s firing up her chainsaw and standing her ground.

Spencer swings wide to avoid her and slows to a half. In one swift motion, Lucy slices through one Boomer, then two, and starts walking slowly back toward the fray.

“LUCY!” Spencer screams. “Come on!”

“They need me!” Lucy yells over the metallic grind of the motor, cutting through another guard. “Go!”

 _“I_ NEED YOU,” Spencer yells back, her voice cracking.

The words hang for a moment, and Lucy looks back at Spencer, searching her eyes for the meaning behind her words.

“Look out!” Spencer screams as another guard charges at Lucy, but with a swift pirouette Lucy spins and slices right through Boomer’s neck, graceful as a swan. A very violent, bloody swan. Without breaking step, Lucy uses the momentum to propel herself forward and starts running toward Spencer.

When all this is over, Spencer’s going to suggest to Lucy that she and River form their own _killet_ troupe for hire, or at least offer a class.

The group charges around the curved hall, panting hard with their heavy weapons still in tow. Faith, Ripley, Vasquez, Donna, Hermione, Spencer, and Lucy file past Processing and toward Sue’s office at full speed. It’s hard to tell just how many guards are following them now, but Spencer’s not about to slow down and count.

As they get further from the bloodbath, she wonders just how bad it is and how many of the inmates have fallen. What will she and the others find when they eventually come back upstairs? Assuming, of course, they ever do. Right now, she’s more worried about what they’ll find at the bottom of this elevator.

But it’s time to find out.


	51. Going Down For Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

“Quick, lock it,” Spencer says to Hermione as they’re all safe inside Sue’s office. When the spell is cast, everyone is quiet and still for a moment, listening for any guards running past. They’re all tense and trying to catch their breath, still very much on high alert. They’re far from out of the woods. In fact, they’re very much trapped in these woods. In space.

Spencer breaks the silence. “We may not have long before they figure out we’re in here. It’s not like there are many places to hide, as we’ve learned the hard way.”

“I can enchant the door to look like something they wouldn’t notice, something that wouldn’t catch their attention,” Hermione offers. “If that helps.”

Spencer can see why Aphasia has such a boner for this girl. She’s a fucking badass. “We need all the help we can get.”

“So, what’s the plan when we get to Sue?” Vasquez asks, cocking the flamethrower and looking quite impatient.

Lucy furrows her brow. “I thought we’re going after _Quinn_.”

“We are,” Spencer says, holding out her hands to keep the situation calm. “Quinn is the priority. But Sue’s got to be down there, and who knows what else, so we have to be prepared.”

“We split up,” Ripley offers. “You find your girl, we find Sue.”

But there’s a homicidal gleam in Vasquez’s eyes. Spencer will never get her answers if Sue’s dead when she arrives.

She shakes her head. “No, we stay together. We don’t know what we’re up against. Safety in numbers.” She starts to reach for her sledgehammer but adds one final point, “And no one lays a hand on Sue until I’ve had the chance to talk to her.”

Vasquez doesn’t seem thrilled, and huffs, “About _what_?”

It’s a simple question, but hardly a simple answer. Spencer’s eyes gloss over momentarily as she relives every shitty memory – every interrogation, every lie, every horror, every ounce of pain, every moment of isolation and despair. She steels her resolve and says, “Everything that bitch owes me.”

Lucy’s hand gently squeezes Spencer’s, pulling her out of the daze. “Let’s go find Quinn,” she says, and picks up her chainsaw.

Donna leads them into the bathroom. (“Now’s the time if anyone needs to go. No complaining an hour from now when we’re all being eaten alive by spiders and you need the loo.”) It’s a very tight fit with seven women and four large weapons, and they all end up stepping on each other’s toes to get the door closed.

“Not a bad design, really,” Donna comments, looking around at the maroon wallpaper and cream-colored hand towels hanging above the standard issue prison toilet. It’s the closest thing to civilization most of them have seen in a long while.

Lucy nods in agreement as she glances around, herself. “Looks like blood.”

Donna glares at her. _“Pick a new theme.”_

“Speaking of,” Faith says, grabbing the small towel off the metal rack and handing it to Lucy, “Here. You’re terrifying.”

Lucy smiles at the compliment but begrudgingly reaches for the towel.

“No,” Hermione cuts in, and everyone turns. “Leave it. You’re…scarier that way. It’s good. Maybe we can use it.”

“She’s right,” Spencer agrees. Funny how she’s almost gotten used to Lucy looking like a red version of Mystique. Taking a deep breath, she pushes past Faith and steps up to the elevator, reaching out to hover her finger an inch from the button. “Here goes.”

Spencer pushes the button, and there’s a dull grinding noise as the elevator car makes its way back to the second level. She looks to Faith and Lucy, lifting her eyebrows. Whoever took this elevator last stayed down there.

Ten seconds later, the doors slide open with a small _ding!_ The car is small, about the size of a single-person shower. It’s clearly not meant for more than two or three people, and now there’s the chance they might break it if they all try going at once. Of course there aren’t any helpful weight limits posted or inspection dates anywhere, because safety is just a silly Earth concept.

Spencer’s seen the only other way downstairs, and she didn’t like it. This has to work. “Okay, same teams. Lucy, Donna, Faith, we’ll go first and wait. You three follow right behind.”

Ripley nods, and they step back to let Donna make her way past. Lucy steps on last so she’ll be first out, should there be trouble waiting on the other end. She looks up to make sure her chainsaw will fit in the door when it closes and adjusts backward slightly.

As Spencer reaches for the **1** button, she hears Hermione say to Vasquez and Ripley, “When it’s our turn, _please_ remember elevators are for transport and not for –” But they’re already making out. Hermione looks at Spencer and calls out, exasperated and annoyed, _“They keep doing this!”_ as the doors close with another _ding!_

All four women start laughing simultaneously, which only compounds the humor of the moment. Faith braces her hand on the wall to keep from falling over, and Donna’s leaning against her shoulder.

“Her face!” Spencer wheezes, flapping her hands.

Even Lucy, who smiles often but never laughs, is getting caught in the group’s giggle loop. It’s the first funny moment they’ve had all day, and it’s sorely needed. Their noise fills the cramped space as their tension releases. For one minute, the gravity of the situation falls away and they’re not paralyzed by anxiety and mind-numbing fear or surrounded by death and imminent danger. Just thinking about their friend, awkwardly stuck with two horny, reunited lovers at the end of the world.

“That poor girl,” Faith says, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

As the laughter dies down, they all wait in awkward silence for the badness to resume. The elevator is eerily quiet when they pull themselves together. And it’s…not moving.

“You did…push the button…” Donna prompts. When Spencer just blinks, they all start laughing again. Then, a loud pounding on the door makes everyone nearly jump out of their skin.

 _“ARE YOU GOING OR WHAT?”_  Hermione’s muffled voice calls out from the other side of the door.

Spencer jumps and scrambles to push the **1** and calls out, “Yes! Sorry!” Faith stifles another laugh while Lucy just smirks at Spencer’s mistake, like they’re high school girls who got caught smoking by their parents. It takes a beat for Spencer to remember that just five months ago, that’s exactly what she was. Just another high school girl.

She’s pulled from the memory by elevator music that starts as the car begins moving – a terrible MIDI version of what seems to be Madonna’s “Holiday.”

Spencer opens her mouth to say something, but really, why is she even surprised?

They travel the rest of the way in silence, other than Lucy humming along, and it occurs to Spencer just what a bizarre crew this is. The cheeky random stranger from her time-traveling machine; a devil-may-care combat expert with super strength and self-esteem problems; a masochistic, mass-murdering clone master-copy with Miss America glamour and the education of a six-year-old; and…whatever Spencer is these days. But they’ve been through a hell of an adventure today, one she’ll never forget as long as she lives. However long that ends up being.

The elevator _dings_ again, and everyone tightens the hold on their weapons.

****************

For a moment, it seems like a dream. Like they’ve stepped into a movie about one of those underground high-security facilities that’s pristine and state of the art. Or like they’re legitimately on a space ship once and for all.

“Whoa,” Faith says.

It’s a long hallway, blinding white on all surfaces, making it hard to see where the wall becomes the floor. When her eyes adjust to the light, Spencer sees there are large square patterns on the walls, like tiles four feet high, white on white. She can’t tell what the material is, but it’s certainly not metal. The air is much cleaner – fresh, even – and cold. The general stench of cafeteria and death and rotting prisoners is gone, save what the four women brought with them.

It seems impossible that this could be the same ship they’ve been living in. This is like a museum, not the zoo they know.

The door behind them _dings_ once more as the final three members join their party. Vasquez echoes the “Whoa.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “I guess now we know where the money goes.”

The group stands there, uncertain about how to proceed, even though there’s only one direction to go. Maybe they’re scared they’ll get the pretty floor dirty by walking on it with their blood-stained shoes. Next to her, Lucy looks more anxious and uncomfortable than Spencer’s ever seen her. So, she catches the girl’s eye and says, “We can do this. Let’s go.” Lucy doesn’t seem to share the sentiment; she exhales and furrows her brow, but doesn’t object.

They start forward, much more cautious now that they’re in unfamiliar territory. Spencer can sense that they don’t belong here, like a primitive species trying to adapt to a habitat far more advanced and evolved. Each step they take just makes her brain churn.

_What is this place? What happens here? Who’s responsible for all this?_

There’s a door on the left, the first they’ve seen, about fifty feet down the corridor. The etching reads “A12” but it has no handle or opening mechanism of any kind – only an electronic scan reader. No numbers or words or buttons, nothing to indicate what’s behind the door or how to open it. Spencer waves her hand in front of the reader, but nothing happens, so she leans closer to inspect it. Suddenly, a red laser moves left to right across her eyes, and Spencer jumps back with a gasp. The scanner makes a three-tone sound that’s clearly a rejection.

“No joy?” asks Faith.

“It’s a retinal scanner,” Spencer says. “This place has some serious funding.”

“And something to hide,” Ripley adds.

 _Most rich people do_ , she thinks. Spencer’s threadbare uniform feels noticeably scratchy against her naked body underneath. She misses having money. And undergarments.

“Can you hack it?” Faith asks.

Spencer laughs but it’s not really funny at all. “I wish.”

“So, we fry it,” Vasquez says, swinging the flamethrower up and taking aim.

“NO!” Spencer shouts much louder than she means to. “Then we’ll never get in. It’s probably a sliding padlock.” Looking to Hermione, she says, “What about that spell? The door-opener one.”

“It’s doubtful,” she replies. “It’s not that the door is locked, it’s that we have to make the system believe you’re someone else.” She sighs, “I do know a potion for _that_ , but we don’t have the ingredients or the month it takes to make it. And we don’t even know who we’d need to turn you into in the first--”

“Please just try the spell!” Spencer interrupts impatiently, holding her hands out.

Hermione straightens her posture and replies, “I’m simply explaining the situation so you won’t get upset when it doesn’t work.” But she readies her wand anyway and says, _“Alohamora_ ,” yielding no results, as predicted. She raises her eyebrows at Spencer with a clear, _I told you so._

“What about the one where you disappear?” Spencer asks. “Can’t you zap inside and see if she’s there, or something?”

“It’s not that simple, and it’s _incredibly_ dangerous,” Hermione says condescendingly. “I’ve never been in that room before. I have to be able to clearly picture exactly where I’m going, or I can get splinched.”

“Splinched?” Spencer asks.

“Part of me out here, part of me in there.” Hermione lets the image settle before continuing. “It’s a lot harder to escape a locked facility than I may make it appear, Spencer. Frankly, I don’t know how you even managed to escape your cell in the first place.”

“Oh!” Donna cries, “That was me!” She rifles through her pockets, a few remaining tasers falling out clumsily, and finally locates her own little silver wand of sorts. She shakes it a few times and points it at the scanner, but other than emitting a buzzing high-pitch sound for a few seconds, it does nothing.

“And what is that, exactly?” Hermione asks, curious but quite underwhelmed.

Donna huffs and points it at her, but Hermione doesn’t even blink. “Sonic screwdriver,” Donna snaps defensively. “I just don’t know the setting for…fake eyeballs, or whatever bloody thing.”

“So, we get the real thing!” Spencer says. “I bet the guards have clearance for these rooms. There’s certainly no shortage of them upstairs.”

“Anybody got a toothpick?” Vasquez asks.

Spencer had forgotten all about that story. She shivers and hopes it doesn’t have a sequel today. “All we need is a head,” she says, shaking hers. “We go back upstairs and grab one.”

Considering just an hour ago, she was crying and nauseated at the sight of the body parts in the garbage chute, it feels bizarre suggesting they fetch and lug around a rotting Boomer skull. Still, no one’s objecting, so it can’t be their worst plan.

“If they’d found our trail in the office, they’d have come down the elevator,” Faith says, casting her vote with a shrug. “Could be Maleficent’s spells are holding up.”

“They are,” says Hermione, pointedly.

“We should move fast if we’re going back up there,” Ripley says. “We’ll go,” she gestures to Vasquez, then tell the rest, “Stay here.” And they head back through the mess of bloody footprints without another word.

Spencer turns to Faith and says, “Watch the elevator?”

“Roger that.”

The remaining women stand there awkwardly for a moment before Hermione says, “I was hoping we could chat,” looking at Spencer. “Just, we haven’t had a chance to talk, between the jailbreaking and war and now this rescue mission.”

“Yeah, sure,” she replies, wondering what this might be about. “What’s up?”

Hermione walks in the opposite direction of Donna, and Spencer steps up beside her until they’re a few feet away. “I don’t know what all she told you, so you’ll forgive me if I seem a bit uneasy.” Spencer still has no idea what’s going on. “Matters of the heart are both what give us the most strength and make us the most vulnerable.”

_Ah. Right._

“Can you tell me,” Hermione continues, “…is she happy? I mean, as much as anyone can be in this place.”

Spencer tries to think back to when she saw Aphasia every day. Her cellmate is certainly one of the most upbeat and fun-loving people she’s met here, but that doesn’t mean she’s genuinely happy. Spencer’s seen more than a few moments of the loneliness lurking underneath the cheerful surface armor. But that doesn’t tell her what she’s supposed to say here.

“I think so. She’s happy,” Spencer says with more certainty.

Hermione gives a small smile and looks down. “Good. That’s good.” She meets Spencer’s eyes. “We all need something to live for, Spencer. It could be a purpose, or a cause, or a person. A family. And I’m both blessed and burdened because I have two things to live for, the Wizarding War and her. She’s my rock. The one thing that makes perfect sense to me in this crazy world we live in.” She swallows and takes another breath. “But I think Aphasia, she’s only living for me. And that’s a lot of pressure, especially for a soldier.”

Spencer nods. There’s a quiet moment before she says, “But it’s working. She keeps going for _you_. She doesn’t get defeated in here because of you. Yeah, it’s hard for her when you leave, but being able to steal your wand so you can keep fighting – you have no idea how good that makes her feel about herself.” She chooses not to spill the beans on the destroyed invisibility blanket; it won’t help right now.

Hermione purses her lips and nods back. “I think I do. Please don’t ever tell her, because it would just utterly destroy her, but…I could get the wand back myself. I’ve become quite skilled at wandless spells, and there is a common summoning charm I’ve perfected. I could call it back to me from anywhere at any time. If I needed to, I mean.”

Spencer considers this information – both the physics bending and the implications – and says, “And you let her keep risking so much for nothing? If she got caught, she’d be thrown into Solitary.”

“But it’s not for nothing! You said it yourself. It gives her purpose. It keeps her going. That’s so important! And she’s so clever, I don’t have to worry about her being caught. Do you really think a simple Solitary cell could hold her? Have you actually met my girlfriend?” Hermione gives a small smile. “Aphasia can take of herself. I trust that. And this way she gets to feel like she’s also taking care of me. You just confirmed that it makes her feel needed.” Before Spencer can interrupt, Hermione adds, “And I _do_ need her. She loves me, Spencer. And I love her. I love her with everything I have.”

“Does she know that?” Spencer remembers having this very conversation with Aphasia. What a damn soap opera they’re living.

“She knows,” Hermione says. “I don’t let myself get carried away because I don’t want to draw attention to her and put her in danger. I’m a very difficult person to love, in that way. I have a lot of enemies far more powerful than someone like Sue Sylvester.”

Spencer doesn’t ever want to meet them, that’s for sure. It sounds like the wizard mob.

“Anyway,” Hermione says, “the reason I’m telling you all this is because I know what it’s like to need something – or someone – to keep you going. To give you purpose. So does Aphasia. And I see that same look in your eyes when you talk about Quinn.”

Spencer feels the rush of blood to her face, but she doesn’t deny the remark.

“If finding her is what you need to do to be alive out here, then I’m going to keep helping you until we find her. We all are.” Hermione gives a little smile and adds, “Everyone should be so lucky to have what we have.”

“A murder rap and a life sentence?” Spencer smiles.

“We could do worse,” Hermione shrugs, then grins back.

“Oi!” Donna interrupts from over by the door. “Should, um…”

Spencer looks and sees that Donna’s pointing to Lucy, standing off by herself and looking quite depressed. Spencer motions for Hermione to follow her back to Donna, then says to them, “Keep working on the scanner until they get back. We might get lucky.” They look at each other like two disappointed science lab partners but don’t complain, at least not outwardly. As they take turns pointing and mumbling at the little piece of plastic on the wall, Spencer walks over to stand beside the suspiciously quiet and aloof member of their team.

Lucy’s ten feet down the hall, leaning against the far wall and staring down into the endless white. The chainsaw’s on the floor a ways behind, forgotten. Spencer walks up beside her and stops, saying, “Hey,” gently. “You okay?”

Her eyes are shining like glass, reflections of the bright lights shimmering off the moisture building under her lashes. A few tears escape and trail streaks through the blood stains on her face. She looks lost, distant, and it chills Spencer to the core. She’s never seen Lucy like this. Scared – trembling, even. Light years from her usual position of control. This environment must be a huge shock to her senses after spending so long in those dark prison cells.

“I know this is weird and new,” Spencer starts, “but I promise we’ll –”

“It’s not new,” Lucy says. Her voice is shaky and weak, like she can barely form the words. Blinking slowly, a few tears stream down her cheeks and drop to the floor.

Spencer’s pretty sure she heard Lucy correctly, but it doesn’t make sense. Did she already know about the elevator? Has Sue brought her down here before? Why wouldn’t she have said anything? …Unless for some reason she _doesn’t_ want them to find Quinn…

Spencer’s heart stops at the idea that Lucy’s been working with Sue all along. _Is this a trap?!_  She can visualize it now -- the elevator door’s going to open, and a dozen guards will come storming out and kill them on the spot. Everything they’ve done today will be for nothing.

It takes all her strength to hold her shit together and ask calmly, “What do you mean, ‘It’s not new’?”

Lucy wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand and sniffs, throwing her hair back in a noble effort to pull herself together. Ignoring Spencer, she walks over toward the locked door, where Donna and Hermione are bickering and arguing pointlessly.

“She’s not in there.”

The three women all just stare at her.

Spencer steps between Lucy and the locked door and looks right into her eyes. “How would you know that?”

Even in her heightened state of emotion, Lucy doesn’t back down from Spencer’s intimidation. In fact, she returns it two-fold. “Do you want to waste more time hearing stories or find her?” Staring her down for another moment before pulling away, Lucy turns away and storms off, grabbing her chainsaw along the way.

Hermione and Donna exchange looks and take off to catch up. Spencer reaches her first, just past door A10, and grabs Lucy’s free arm and says, “Hey!” Instantly, she regrets startling an armed psychopath, but she can’t take it back now.

“Beth said G,” Lucy says. “That’s where I’m taking you.” Yanking her arm free, she starts off again, holding the chainsaw with more intent as a warning to her companions.

It’s not until Spencer hears the running feet behind her and the voice calling, “Wait! We got it!” that she remembers the other part of the plan. Sure enough, Vasquez is closing the gap between them, her fingers firmly entwined in the black hair of a Boomer head, dripping glops on the floor. “Where the hell are you going?”


	52. Boom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Lucy Fabray is marching with determination, with assuredness. Trailing behind her in file, Spencer, Hermione, Donna, Faith, Vasquez, and Ripley keep up as best they can. There seems to be no time to test their new toy on any of the many doors they’re passing. Lucy clearly knows where she’s going. Spencer should be glad for that, since the map in her pocket is useless at this point, but it’s too unsettling. There’s more going on here than she knows, and Spencer doesn’t like that one bit.

Finally, Lucy slows to a stop and faces left. Catching up, Spencer sees that to their right is a giant, closed metal door the size of a garage that must be the docking bay, according to the map they stole. It’s locked by another scanner, but Spencer’s not eager to see if there are any more guards working on the other side. To their left, where Lucy’s looking, is another hallway stemming off at what seems to be halfway down their current path. A few feet beyond where they’re standing is a metal staircase going up, which Spencer can only assume leads back to the main floor. If they need a quick escape, it’ll be a preferable alternative to running all the way back to the slow-ass elevator. Piecing a 3-D map together in her mind, she realizes the top of this staircase must have been where all those guards emerged during the bloodbath.

Meaning they came from down here. On this hallway. The one heading right into the belly of the ship.

It’s just as long and bright white as the first, but there are more doors on either side, what must be a dozen at least, just from where Spencer’s standing. She can’t quite see what’s straight ahead at the end, even when she squints.

“Where do we start?” Faith says from behind her.

“Come on,” Lucy says, stepping forward to take the lead. “This w—”

But her words are muffled by two high pitch beeps and the whooshing sound of a sliding door opening. The girls turn to see Vasquez standing in front of the very first door on the left, holding Boomer’s head by her hair, level with the retinal scanner. “Ca-ching,” she says.

Spencer looks at Lucy, then double checks that no one’s coming down either hall.

 _“You…might want to come see this,”_  Hermione’s voice calls out to her.

_That’s not good._

Stepping cautiously toward the group of women in the door of room G1, Spencer peers over Faith’s shoulder.

She smells it before she sees it.

“Right,” Donna starts, “…What the hell is _that_?”

The large room has only one thing in it: what seems to be a series of five alien bathtubs, arranged like petals of a flower. Each one is red metal, contrasting strongly with the bright lights coming from inside the tubs. And that surely can’t be water; it’s viscous and milky, but there are bodies floating in it, wrists chained to the edge, heads above the surface, adult size and very naked.

It’s hard to make out much amidst the bright backlighting, but there’s no way it’s Quinn – the dark, long hair is unmistakable. And with a quick check of the others, it seems all five chambers have similar bodies in them.

“I’ve seen a lot of aliens, and I try not to judge,” Donna says, waving her hand in front of her face, “but this is just foul.”

“Agreed,” Hermione says, nose in her elbow.

“I vote _leave_ ,” Faith says, turning and taking a step backward, right onto Spencer’s shoe.

Crossbow in ready position, Ripley cautiously approaches the nearest pod with a calculating expression. There’s something about that look that makes Spencer ask, “Seen this before?”

Looking down and around, examining the twisted black cables wiring the sections to each other and the floor, Ripley finally replies, “No,” but the tension remains. “I agree. We need to leave. Now.”

With Ripley partially blocking the light, Spencer’s eyes adjust enough to see the face in the nearest chamber more clearly.

 _Boomer’s_ face.

Quickly, Spencer looks from one chamber to the next, but they’re all the same. And they’re all Boomer. That’s when she notices the giant set of lockers on the near wall behind her, probably lined with weapons. Sue is somehow _growing_ an unlimited supply of alien guards.

_“GUHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”_

Without warning, the Boomer from the tub on the back-left side comes alive, gasping desperately for air and fighting against the restraints. The women jump, startled, and Spencer drops the sledgehammer on the floor with a deafening _clang._ The noise draws the attention of the newly woken creature, who blinks repeatedly against the brightness, turning to look right at them but still convulsing slightly. She seems unable to speak at first and struggles as if in pain, but nobody dares take a step toward her. After a very long minute of watching the alien-person-thing work through it, the room falls silent and still.

Boomer looks at each of the women in turn, eyes finally resting on Lucy, standing on the far side. “YOU!” she growls, testing out her new vocal chords quite effectively. “You…you _killed me!”_

Lucy seems unfased by the accusation. “That sounds like something I would do.”

“You remember that?” Spencer asks Boomer, blinking. “How?”

“And what sort of alien takes a sperm bath?” asks Donna in disgust. “I mean, really. Get some standards.”

Hermione scowls and recoils at the description.

“I'm not an alien,” Boomer says. “I'm a Cylon.”

Donna turns, confused. “One-a those orange cone things?”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione mutters, _“Good lord.”_

“I’m a machine,” Boomer says, her words filling the room. “There are many copies. You can’t kill me.”

“Pretty sure I did,” Lucy says, stepping forward with her chainsaw. “Several times. And I'll do it again.”

“When I die, my consciousness just downloads to a new body.” Boomer’s eyes glisten with superiority. “We are forever. And we will exterminate your entire race, starting with _you_.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Donna says, and picks up the sledgehammer from the floor. The weight seems to take her by surprise, and she awkwardly lifts it up to shoulder level as she approaches the lone conscious Boomer.

“Oh god,” Hermione says, “Please don’t do that!”

But Donna ignores her.

“You can’t stop us,” Boomer mocks as she approaches.

Spencer can tell Boomer’s scared, chained there, naked and trapped, but the Cylon is putting on a good front.

“Mmm,” Donna ponders, “Pretty sure I can.”

With a fairly impressive war cry, Donna raises the sledgehammer as high as she can, and Spencer turns away. This is going to be seriously gross. She hears a loud _BANG_ and a quickly muttered, _“Shit! Hang on,”_  then the unfortunate sound of a skull crushing like a melon.

It brings back such sweet memories. For Spencer, anyway. Hermione’s screaming.

“AHA!” Donna cries out. “Take that, you bloody alien machine!”

The commotion seems to be stimulation enough to wake a different Boomer, and Spencer turns with wide eyes at the familiar gasping noise. “That one!” she calls. Donna skips around quickly and smashes it her first try.

“Stop!” Hermione shouts, but it’s no use.

Two more spring to life mere seconds apart, and the women suddenly find themselves in a very disturbing game of Whack-A-Mole. But Donna’s got a rhythm now, and they don’t want to get in her way. An unspoken decision is made to off the fifth and final Boomer before she wakes up, just to be sure.

“Right, now what?” Donna asks, hammer still in hand, breathing hard. The scene holds up well with the trail of carnage the women have left in their path thus far. Blood, bone fragments, and tissue chunks float easily on the surface of the thick liquid, wispy swirls of red branching out in every direction. The room smells even worse now.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hermione says bitterly, defeated.

“Uh, pretty sure I did,” Donna retorts. “Did you not hear the bit about, ‘We’re going to exterminate your race’?”

“They’re _machines_ ,” Hermione says. “She said herself they’re downloaded! We could’ve just _unplugged them.”_  She points to where a giant cable meets a panel on the wall.

_Oh._

“Plus, weren’t we going to investigate one?” Hermione reminds them. “Wasn’t that the plan? Find out where they took Quinn?” Nobody seems to know what to say. “Very well executed, everyone, bravo.”

With a huff, Hermione turns and retreats to the hallway, shaking her head. The others look around awkwardly and survey the gruesome display once more with new perspective.

“D’you think these were their last five bodies?” Ripley asks.

“Hope so,” Faith says. “Nice to know for sure there’s no more coming.”

Lucy sighs in disappointment.

Spencer chimes in. “I can’t imagine Sue would need more than the fifteen we’ve seen, considering she uses them one at a time. Maybe that’s all of them.”

“Or maybe there’s another set of these things behind every door on this hallway,” Faith says.

“There’s not,” Lucy says.

Spencer shoots her a look but doesn’t ask the question. “Hope you’re right.”

Ripley starts searching the lockers for anything they can use, but it’s just P.M.S. uniforms and tasers, which they already have enough of. “I don’t know why I thought maybe there’d be a pad in here somewhere. Machines don’t bleed.”

“Probably not,” Spencer agrees, but secretly wishes they were wrong. She’s not feeling very fresh, herself, after this long day of action.

Vasquez, meanwhile, picks up the rotting head they entered with and walks over to the nearest chamber tub, holding the head above the pile of neck mush. It looks both right and very wrong. _“Hi, I’m Boomer,”_  she says in a high-pitched voice, bouncing the head a few inches up and down.

“Come on,” Ripley disapproves.

But her girlfriend isn’t deterred. _“It’s just so hard to get a head these days.”_

“If we’re done here,” Lucy says dryly, “I thought maybe we could go save Quinn.”

Vasquez makes a face at them both and files back out into the hallway, flamethrower and spare head in tow.

The group reconvenes at the T-intersection, heading into uncharted territory once more. Lucy breaks rank and turns to face them, taking a deep breath. “This hallway is mostly sleeping quarters for the guards. There shouldn’t be any left, so I say we skip these doors and press on.” Lucy pauses before continuing. “I think I know where she is.” Without another word, she takes off at a brisk pace.

“Where?” Faith calls after her but gets no reply.

The rooms are packed closely together starting with G5, odd numbers on the left, even on the right. Spencer doesn’t need the map to know they’re running down the spine of the ship, the same length of the cell block, right underneath it. As they continue down, she sees the end of the hallway coming closer into view, a white wall with yet another door, wider than the rest.

This one has a giant DYAD logo on it.

G20…G30…closer and closer still. Finally, the gang of seven can travel no further. Sure enough, there’s a placard with “LAB” under the retinal scanner. And there’s a vague hint of stale cigarette smoke down here that seems out of place in the otherwise sterile environment.

“You smell that?” Spencer asks.

“Disgusting habit,” Hermione scowls, fanning the air with a hand.

But Spencer’s heart is racing as she stands in front of the lab. They’re finally here. Quinn’s just beyond this door. God only knows what’s being done to her, but she’s in th--

“She’s not in there,” Lucy says.

Spencer steps back from the scanner and turns, confused. How is this not where they were going?

“She’s in _there_.” Lucy points to the next to last door on the right, room G38. Spencer stares at the letter and remembers Beth’s shortened message. This could be it. The other women look at each other nervously. Like so many locked doors they’ve stood in front of today, this is, presumably, the moment they’ve all been waiting for.

“Of course!” Hermione says, like it all makes perfect sense. “Except…wait.” She furrows her brow. “Why this one?”

Lucy sniffles once. Her eyes begin to shine like when Spencer found her in the first hallway. “Because this was _my_ room.”

Realization flashes across Spencer’s face, but Lucy has already stepped away. She leans over in front of the retinal scanner of G38, as this one is several inches lower to the ground than the others in the main hall. It gives the two beeps of success before the door slides open with a fast _whoosh!_


	53. You Can Never Go Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

The moment the door opens, Spencer knows something is wrong. They’re instantly hit with a wall of putrid stench, and everyone steps back and out of the way, coughing.

“Oh, it’s _foul!”_  Hermione mumbles with her face buried into her arm. She retreats a few more steps to escape the invisible cloud of gas and the others follow.

But Spencer has to know.

Her heart is in her throat as she steps inside the small, white room. Fingerpainted animal drawings cover the back wall. Pink pillows and accessories fill every corner and nook. There’s no doubt that this is a place a young Lucy would’ve decorated. It’s probably what present-day Lucy would do to their cell if given the chance. The pink shag rug, the rows of paint bottles on the bookshelf…

The faceless, half-eaten body rotting on the rocking chair.

Spencer screams.

_I’m too late. They got her._

_I’m too late…_

“What! What!” An angry brunette wakes up with a start on the bed, swinging her arms and furiously brushing the hair out of her face.

Spencer screams again at the sudden movement. She hadn’t seen the bed yet, what with the zombie fodder in the middle of the room, much less seen there was someone in it.

It’s Santana. Still naked as the day she was dragged away screaming from the cell block. And either she is having the worst period of her life, or someone died on that bed. From the sheer size of the stains, maybe ten someones.

Lucy storms in, eyes on fire and chainsaw at the ready. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Santana doesn’t seem the least bit put off by the threatening entrance. “Nice to see you, too.”

Spencer, meanwhile, is still staring at the horror before her. The rotting corpse that is going to haunt her dreams for the next…ever. Black, tattered shreds of clothing lie strewn across the room and at its feet. There’s no use checking for a missing toe, because all ten are already long gone. But Santana left behind a full head of brown hair, so this can’t be Quinn. The decomposition process seems in full swing, and Quinn’s only been gone since last night. This must be that poor FBI agent who came after Santana. Or at least what’s left of her.

Spencer drops the sledgehammer to her side and sighs in relief, fighting not to breathe too deeply. But with her mouth open, it’s taking all of her willpower not to vomit what little food is left in her system. The smell in here is worse than the Cylon bathhouse, the doctor’s office, and Umbridge’s office combined.

 _“Is it Quinn?”_  comes Hermione’s loud voice from her safe distance down the hall.

“No,” Lucy and Spencer call back in unison.

There’s a brief pause. _“Are you coming back out?”_

“Not yet,” Spencer replies.

_“Then will you please shut the door?!”_

Spencer looks to Lucy, who walks over to the identical retinal scanner panel on the inside wall and complies with Hermione’s request. Fortunately, all the rage in her eyes isn’t interfering with the computer’s recognition software.

Santana rubs the sleep away and repeats the question back to Lucy, “What the hell are _you_ doing here? It’s early.”

“It’s five PM,” Spencer says.

Santana ignores her and instead looks back and forth at the weapons, then at Lucy’s uniform. “The Carrie look suits you. Me gusta.” She looks down and back up, adding with approval, “Matches the sheets. Plus, it’s nice to see you’ve graduated Hastings to blood play, which you know is one of my fav—”

“THIS IS MY ROOM,” Lucy fumes.

Santana recoils a bit. “Mm, don’t think so, Loosey Cannon.”

“My name’s on everything!” Lucy says, pointing to the artwork. “Look…” Her voice quivers, unable to hide her emotional reaction as the memories come flooding back. “All my paintings…” Lucy walks right past the dead body and runs a finger along the gallery of art on the wall, taking in each one with a smile before moving to the next. “I never thought…” Lucy sniffles and wipes a smear of blood and tears across her face. “And that’s MY BED.”

“Squatter’s rights,” Santana says. “How did you even get in the door? I figured that panel busted years ago. Maybe nobody bothered to fix it because this décor should never again see the light of day. But we managed to liven it up a little bit, didn’t we, Clarice?” Santana looks to the dead elephant in the room.

Lucy ignores her and walks over to the bookshelf, picking every item up in turn and looking through each volume. She seems both overcome with nostalgia and about to erupt.

Spencer wonders if it might not be a bad idea to take away the chainsaw. Politely.

“How could this be your room, anyway?” Santana asks. “I thought you were from some random space ship full of mad scientists.”

Lucy doesn’t turn around. “Me too,” she says through gritted teeth.

Santana sits up a little straighter. “Wait, _this_ is where you killed all those people?” She laughs in delight. “No shit. Well, hey, welcome home, Lucy Borden.”

Spencer doesn’t know what she’s supposed to say, but she knows Santana is playing with fire by salting that wound. If Spencer’s learned anything about Lucy, it’s that she wants to be in control. She wants power. And people in power don’t like being kept in the dark.

Watching Lucy process the new reality crashing down on her, Spencer can finally put the pieces together. When Lucy was a child, living here, she killed the scientists who sent her sisters away and everyone who tried to stop her. Scientists --  Spencer assumes -- who worked in the lab twenty feet from where they’re standing. After the massacre, Lucy was shipped off to prison, far away from the painful memories of the truth, or so they said. She must not have ever gone upstairs when she was little or known what was up there. A jail isn’t a place for children to run around, anyway. And the two floors certainly look different enough to believe they’re two different ships.

Still, how stupid Lucy must feel right now. How belittled. After everything she’s seen today, Spencer has to assume it’s not returning to a murder scene that bothers her, but returning to the place where she was betrayed by the people who raised her.

Spencer wonders if the vastness of space feels a lot smaller to Lucy now, like the world collapsed in on her in one moment, revealing the trap she’s been caught in all along. She liked prison so much _because_ she was far from those demons. Only, she’s still been here the whole time, living in the same walls as her ghosts. She must have known the second they stepped off the elevator. Everything she’d been told was a lie. She hadn’t escaped her past at all.

“You really didn’t know?” Spencer asks.

Lucy just stares at the wall. There’s a fingerpainting of what looks like an octopus with a horse head, and Spencer can see the small name scrawled in the corner. It’s just like the ones lining the back of their cell. She may be in her early twenties, but really, Lucy has barely aged at all since childhood. Physically, yes – and sexually – but not emotionally. Maybe that’s why she believed their lie so easily.

Spencer hasn’t read Lucy’s file, but she’s willing to bet Lucy skipped a formal trial. Maybe there was nowhere else for her to go; a homicidal, orphaned child, alone in space. Maybe there aren’t juvenile facilities in the space prison system; Spencer has no idea. The authorities must have gone to great lengths when transferring the young Lucy upstairs, since they managed to convince her that she’d been transported elsewhere. Maybe they moved her while she slept, or gave her something to knock her out, like they did to Spencer. Still, it’s mindboggling that Lucy never picked up on the clues. No one would let you bring a chainsaw and a pet spider with you to prison, even this one. But Spencer’s not raising that point now. That’s a conversation for another day when Lucy isn’t armed and vulnerable.

Maybe Sue took on a motherly role with Lucy since she was so young. Maybe that’s why they seem to have a soft spot for each other. But that means Sue’s also been in on the lie. If Spencer’s right, Lucy will be chomping hard at the bit to find Sue and confront her, so they should get going. For now, Spencer simply offers, “I’m sorry.”

The obnoxiously perky queen bee, the encouraging crafts teacher, the ruthless dominatrix…the many sides of the girl Spencer came to know, if not to understand, seem so far from the version before her now. Maybe one of those versions of Lucy was the real one, the girl she wanted to be once free from this place. Or maybe this is the real Lucy here and now; shattered, distracted and dazed, far from control.

“Ok, seriously, if this isn’t a sex thing, then what’s the what,” Santana prompts, pulling them back to the matter at hand. “You broke my hibernation state, and now I’m hungry.”

_Oh god._

“Quinn’s been kidnapped,” Spencer says. “Maybe by the guards or Sue or the spiders. We’re turning the ship upside down looking for her,” and she holds a hand out, referencing Lucy’s wardrobe.

“Haven’t seen her,” Santana says. “Clarice brought me in here for that conjugal weeks ago. Haven’t seen anyone else since.”

“So, you _ate her_ to stay alive?” Spencer asks, horrified. She wonders why Lucy hasn’t complained about this particular piece of redecorating, but hey, maybe she secretly approves. Also, Spencer had no idea that when Santana was hauled away naked by a resentful FBI officer, it was for a booty call. But then, why does anything surprise her up here anymore?

“Please, like you wouldn’t have done the same,” Santana sneers. “Not a lot of choices in here. I gave her a week just in case someone found us. I’m not a monster.” She seems just oblivious enough to believe it. “I was the best lay she ever had. It’s not like I hadn’t just spent three whole days eating her puss–”

“Okay, okay, STOP!” Spencer holds up her hands, eyes full of fear. “Nobody wants to hear your story anymore.”

Santana shrugs and lies back down.

Lucy doesn’t have any further comment on the situation, either. With a glance to Spencer, she says, “Let’s go,” and scans herself again to unlock the door. Both of them jump a bit, startled to see Faith’s waiting on the other side.

She holds up a questioning finger and says, “Is that…?” but then she hears her name called out in confirmation and begins to make her way inside.

 _“Get in here!”_  Santana says, spreading out on the blood-soaked bed with a grin.

Faith awkwardly angles past Lucy and Spencer saying, “I’m just gonna…but good luck with the whole murder quest thing.” She has her uniform unzipped before she passes the corpse, and the last thing Spencer and Lucy hear as they exit is laughter and the familiar smacking of Santana’s mouth against Faith’s.

Lucy closes the door behind them and rests her fists against it, kicking it hard twice. There’s a faint sound of Spanish cursing on the other side mixed with whatever Bostonian insult Faith selected. Lucy stares at the G38 sign for half a minute, then turns and walks away down the corridor. She begins to drift near Hermione, but at the girl’s gentle whisper of _“Are you okay?”_   Lucy veers in a different direction to isolate herself.

Spencer’s legs, however, didn’t have the will power to take her more than a few feet outside the door. Burying her hands in her hair again, she drops the ninety-pound sledgehammer to the ground in the hallway, allowing herself to breathe deeply again. The physical response triggers the tears of frustration she’s been holding back, and she throws her weight against the wall between doors G38 and 36. Her forehead slams hard against the cold, white panel, a dull numbness that gives way to pain. Something she can focus on, something tangible.

Lucy may have just come home, but Spencer’s never felt so lost.

Quinn was supposed to be here. It all made sense, didn’t it? The Lucy connection, the G, the proximity to the lab. All the clues led here, to nothing but another dead body.

Turning around to feel the cold panel against her back, Spencer slides slowly down the wall until she reaches the floor, eyes still closed. Maybe the others are standing there watching her fall apart, maybe they’re not. Spencer doesn’t give a shit. Quinn’s not here, which means she must be in _there_ , in the fucking _lab_ , whatever the fuck that means. Poked and prodded, probed and pulled apart. Brain cut out, or starved to death. Pumped full of chemicals or drained of all her –

_“Spencer!”_

The metal flap on the door beside her, thin and hinged like a mail slot, bangs a few times to get her attention.

_“Hey!”_

She wipes her tears away quickly and turns to look at the hazel eyes and black polished fingertips poking out of the food slot.

It’s Quinn.

****************

“Oh my god! She’s here! She’s in here!”

Spencer starts grabbing at the door, but of course it’s futile, as there is no knob. Vasquez runs over with the rotting head and scans it as the other women eagerly stand by. Two beeps and the door slides open, and Spencer’s got her arms wrapped around Quinn before she realizes she’s even moved at all.

Quinn gives a small laugh and returns the hug, saying, “Seriously, I’m fine. What are you doing here?”

“I’m so sorry,” Spencer cries into her shoulder, squeezing her tighter. “I’m so sorry.” The tears from a moment ago return, but this time they’re tears of joy and relief. The dread melts away as Spencer releases the visions of weeping over Quinn’s body, mangled and eaten.

She’s okay. They found her. They had to kill just about everyone in this prison to do it, but they did it.

“I saw you yesterday,” Quinn says into her ear with a smile, still firmly in Spencer’s embrace.

Spencer sniffles and laughs, “It’s been a _very, very_ long day.” She doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t want to have to stop breathing the sweet, smoky scent of Quinn’s hair or release the warmth against her body. Maybe now, finally, she can curl up and sleep for a year, just wrap her arms around Quinn and _be_ together, drifting off into peaceful dreams.

“Good,” Lucy’s voice cuts in from behind them, acknowledging Quinn’s safety, and Spencer crashes back to reality.

Taking inventory of her blood-soaked sister and the crowd behind her – Ripley, Vasquez, and Hermione -- Quinn’s brow furrows as she asks, “What’s going on?”

“We came to rescue you,” Spencer says, as if it’s obvious.

An arched eyebrow. “Rescue me?”

“Spencer said you’d been kidnapped,” Ripley says.

Now both Quinn’s eyebrows are up. _“Kidnapped?”_  She looks embarrassed, both for Spencer and for herself.

Spencer’s stunned she’s not receiving the hero’s praise she deserves. “You were gone! Nobody knew where you were! What was I supposed to think! I had to get you out of here! _”_ She waves her hands around the pink bedroom and takes a first, good look at it. (The one next door probably looks just like this, underneath the giant pools of blood.)

Quinn’s made herself at home. Her jumpsuit matches the thick, fluffy bedspread well; it’s pulled down now, probably from rising after a nice, long nap. There’s a tall stack of children’s books on the floor by the bed and one still on the pillow. There’s a large multi-case of purple and green eyeshadow she’s been using as an ashtray. It’s much more comfortable than her prison cell upstairs. She’s probably been happy here. It looks like she even had a goddamn tea party.

Spencer feels like an idiot.

“I’m fine,” Quinn says flatly. “Really. Sue said I’d only be here until tonight, after the inspection.”

Lucy steps closer. “What inspection?”

But Quinn doesn’t know. “She just said it was routine.”

Spencer thinks of all the weird kind of visitors they get in this place – Mistress Berry, Agent Starling, god only knows who else – and wonders what constitutes a routine inspection in space prison. And what would they have to do with Quinn? “Then why pull you out?” she asks. “Did anyone else go with you?”

“No. She just said it was for my own safety.” Quinn looks around and adds, “Not my first choice, but it’s fine.” She can see Spencer’s still on edge, so she adds reassuringly, “She didn’t hurt me or drug me or whatever you think happened. I walked down here myself. I slept fine, I ate lunch, I read shitty books.”

Spencer’s trying to fit this new truth into her narrative. Trying to justify everything that’s happened. Trying to make sense of her clusterfuck of emotions. For hours now, they’ve been running around under the misguided notion that Quinn’s life was in danger. They broke out of prison cells. They murdered fifteen guards. They sawed an innocent girl’s legs off and left her to bleed to death. They armed the oppressed and then unleashed World War III.

And all the while, Quinn was alive and well down here, having a goddamn tea party and chain-smoking with a teddy bear. Oblivious to everything that’s happened. The paralyzing fear. The nauseating worry. Mack getting tortured. Spencer getting tased. Killer Cylons in alien goo. The gore and guts and trauma and running in endless circles. The long hours trying to get here, to this place, which they probably could’ve found right away if Beth had been given thirty more seconds to finish her goddamn message.

It was all for nothing. A waste. One big, fat lie.

Spencer imagined the whole “kidnapped” situation, just so she could save the damsel in distress and get the girl. Who, it turns out, requested no such saving in the first place. And now Spencer’s complicit in enough murders and destruction to land her in Solitary for life. There’s no going back from this, from what they’ve done. All on Spencer’s command.

“Hey,” Quinn says, stepping closer. “You okay?”

But no, Spencer’s a fucking _galaxy_ away from okay. She feels like a fucking idiot. Everyone is looking to her, and she’s had the story wrong from the start. It’s not like she wanted Quinn to be in actual danger, but – to do all this, to come this far, and then find out… Blood rushes to Spencer’s head, and she wants to just call a do-over on the day and erase all the horrible things that have happened.

Go back in time and do it all over again.

Perhaps in new friend Donna’s time machine.

Spencer’s heart pounds at the possibility, and her eyes gloss over as she considers the logistics of such an incredible thing. The physics of time travel is beyond her understanding, but it _does_ work, as evidenced by Donna’s presence here. If they could travel back to when Donna first showed up, they could bypass all the awful things, head right to the elevator, and get Quinn, all in under thirty minutes.

Or, they could just leave her here until this “inspection” is over and trust she would be returned safe and sound. They could save Graham and whoever else is lying dead in the cell block just over their heads.

But then…who’s to say it would play out that easily? If they still broke out, maybe they’d get caught before they could arm themselves. Even with the sacrifice of Graham, isn’t everyone else better off with all the Boomers dead? If they go back and try to redo it, it could be someone else who is sacrificed. Hermione, maybe. Or Mack. Lucy.

Herself.

As much as Spencer hates the situation they’re currently in, she can’t know there’s a better choice than the path they’re on. She can’t guarantee an improved outcome. Donna’s even said she can’t be trusted to fly the machine on her own, so god only knows where – _when_ \-- they could end up. What are the rules of time travel, anyway? If they looped back, would there be two of them? Would they create a paradox of the universe if they met? Even if it were easy, with everything that’s happened Spencer wouldn’t even know where to restart. Her mind rewinds to how all this began, a truly horrific day she’ll never forget. And that’s when she remembers…

It started with a spider web. Spencer didn’t make _that_ up. Nor did she invent the rotting doctor or half-eaten Umbridge, neither of whom could’ve been Santana’s doing, as she’s been locked up for weeks. Fucking killer space spiders. That threat is still real, and it’s still out there. With as wrong as she’s been about everything that’s happened, Spencer can still cling to that.

_And, no, Quinn. I’m not the slightest bit okay._

“You have no idea…” She closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath. “All day…I thought you’d been taken, or the spiders got you.” She opens her eyes. “They’ve eaten people. We’ve seen it.”

“I’m fine,” Quinn says, dismissing the topic, but she’s not smiling anymore.

That’s not good enough for Spencer, but Ripley enters the room before she can belabor the point.

“We should go.” Ripley gives Quinn a quick look-over, as if assessing for injuries in need of attention, then refocuses on Spencer when finding none. “Remember the deal.”

“What deal?” Quinn asks uneasily.

“We’re going after Sue,” Spencer says with renewed confidence. This mission may not have played out as predicted, but there’s still another one in play she’s not giving up on. “I promised, if they helped me find you.”

“Define ‘go after,’ ” Quinn prompts.

Spencer doesn’t know what to say.

“No,” Quinn says simply. “It’s stupid.” Spencer starts to speak, but Quinn adds, “What are you going to do, _kill_ her?”

Which only reminds Spencer that Quinn’s an alleged serial killer.

A conversation for another time.

“If we have to,” Lucy says, tightening the grip on the chainsaw handle. Her trademark cheerful tone is a thing of the past. Still, Spencer can hear shades of it when Lucy adds, “Besides, we’re having a very productive day.”

Quinn scoffs. “You won’t get anywhere near her if she doesn’t want you to.”

“I just want to talk to her,” Spencer says, though that’s getting thinner by the moment. “I want answers for all this bullshit that’s been going on.” But Quinn doesn’t look convinced. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Maybe you should just stay here. You’ll be safe.” In case it helps, she adds, “Like Sue said.”

“Now that _you’re_ the one in charge, it’s okay if I’m in here,” Quinn clarifies, pointedly noting Spencer’s hypocrisy. Her eyes narrow. “I can take care of myself.”

“Maybe you missed the memo of what we’ve been doing all day, because –”  But she can’t finish her sentence, now that sees what’s on the floor by the foot of the bed.

Spiders.

Smashed, dead spiders.

Countless smashed, dead spiders. At least thirty, maybe more. Swept together in a pile of black tangled legs and blue ooze, left out like a warning to anyone else who dares tread here.

“They _did_ come after you!” Spencer shouts, forgetting momentarily that they’re fighting.

“I handled it.” Quinn repeats.

Lucy sees them, too, and instantly starts crying. “You bitch. They were probably hungry and just looking for some leftovers you didn’t need!”

Quinn’s not having any of Lucy’s shit today. _“Thirty_ of them?”

“They’re just trying to survive!”

“SO WAS I,” Quinn yells back.

Lucy storms out in a huff.

But this development has blown Spencer’s mind. She remembers all too well how terrifying it is when they come in after you, climbing up the walls and filling your bed. Your skin crawls at the very sight of them and how they scurry along, eager and hungry to devour your flesh. Maybe the drug just exacerbated the fear, but that was the worst night of Spencer’s life. And here, this is easily three times as many as came after her, yet Quinn took care of it without incident, it seems. It just makes Spencer even crazier about Quinn Fabray.

Which begs the question…did Sue put Quinn in here specifically so the spiders could get to her more easily? She must have. Maybe with Quinn hidden away here by herself, they could’ve taken their time with her and not had to carry her off in a limited no-gravity window to pick her bones clean. While it’s possible it’s just a very convenient coincidence that they found her here…yeah, Spencer’s not buying that.

Not that it matters, because the plan failed. They’re dead, Quinn’s not, and Sue’s about to be.

_Suck on that, you eight-legged freaks._

Still, Spencer can’t take her eyes off them. It’s hard to believe that this little mound of fragile limbs has been the source of so much pain and stress in her life over the last three months. They look so small, like nothing. But this little pile of nothing is, well, everything. It’s the signal in the sky that everything’s going to be okay. And suddenly, Spencer’s need to be right in this little argument has faded away.

“Time to go, ladies,” Vasquez says loudly. “You with us or not?”

“Yeah,” Spencer calls back, but she doesn’t look away from Quinn.

 _“You girls have fun getting dead,”_  comes Santana’s voice from next door.

“Got any more weapons?” Quinn asks. Donna reaches into her pockets and pulls out two tasers, tossing them to Quinn one at a time. “Thanks,” she says uneasily, and Spencer remembers they haven’t been introduced.

“Donna, Quinn.”

“Right,” Donna smiles and nods. “Love the hair.”

Quinn doesn’t seem to get who this woman is or why she’s here, but she lets it go and stuffs one of the tasers into her bra, gripping the other in her strong hand. That reminds Spencer of what’s stuffed into hers, and she withdraws the crushed pack of Marlboro Lights and holds it out to Quinn.

“Thanks,” she replies with a small smile.

They file out of room G36 and gather one by one around the lab door. It seems more intimidating now that it’s time to go inside it. Like a mouth waiting to swallow them.

“Let’s do this,” Vasquez says, aiming her flamethrower dead center where the door halves meet. “Zap it,” she says to Lucy.

“I never had clearance to the lab,” she replies.

Readjusting her weapon, Vasquez says, “Here,” to Donna and tosses the Boomer head at her.

Donna screams and jumps to the side, letting it fall to the ground with a _splotch_. “DON’T YOU THROW THAT NASTY THING AT ME, RAMBO.”

Vasquez doesn’t reply, just slowly angles her body with a bored look on her face until the large weapon is pointed right at Donna, and then she cocks an eyebrow.

“Faith,” Spencer calls out, hoping her cellmate’s fearlessness applies to severed heads. “Please be so kind as to get the door.” She keeps her annoyed glare on Vasquez and Donna. But nobody replies. She looks away now and turns around. “Faith?”

_“Occupado!”_

The voice is coming from Lucy’s old room. Then several familiar moans quickly follow.

Spencer pauses for a moment to make sure they’re moans of pleasure, not moans of…being devoured, then bangs her hand on the retinal scanner in a feeble attempt to close the door as quickly as possible. She’s heard enough of that sex parade in her lifetime, thanks very much. When nothing happens, Lucy leans down in front of the scanner again. Two seconds later, the door slides closed, trapping Faith and Santana safely inside, provided zombie!Clarice doesn’t spring to life.

That…is a threeway Spencer does not ever want to think about again.

She begrudgingly picks the grotesque head off the floor by its hair and holds it in front of the lab door scanner as Lucy, Ripley, and Vasquez aim their weapons at any oncoming traffic. The red laser scans back and forth, then makes the same three beeps of rejection they heard when they first came downstairs.

“Come on,” Spencer says and tries it again. Nope. _“Shit.”_  The lab must be a Cylon-free zone.

The others turn at the indication of trouble. “What’s the hold up?” Vasquez shouts.

Spencer wipes blood off the eyes with her suit and tries one more time. “It’s not working.”

“Maybe it can’t be a dead one,” Ripley offers.

After a fourth rejection, Spencer slams the head in frustration against the panel several times, cursing again with each hit. Another dead end. She finally throws it aside and tries to ignore the horrible _splosh_ sound it makes as it connects with the wall and then the floor.

 _“I never did take that laser science community college course_ ,” comes a voice from behind them, _“but I’m pretty sure that’s not how that works.”_

Weapons cock and take new aim as the group swivels quickly around.

It’s Buffy. Her uniform is ripped in several places, her lip is bloody, and she’s got a raging case of sex hair. But she doesn’t look the slightest bit worried to have a chainsaw, crossbow, flamethrower, magic wand, and taser pointed at her.

“Open the door,” Spencer says.

Buffy shrugs and says, “No can do.”

Lucy fires up the chainsaw and takes two steps closer, stone faced. The sound is every bit as deafening in this narrow hallway as it was upstairs, and Spencer grimaces against it, familiar as the grinding roar has become.

“Do you mind?” Buffy shouts at Lucy over the noise. She points a finger at Spencer and back at herself. “We’re trying to have a conversation.”

 _“LUCY!”_  Spencer yells.

Lucy shoots Spencer an annoyed look, waits three seconds, and powers it down. Sputtering in short bursts, the chain blade slows to a stop.

Spencer refocuses on the blonde guard, who’s now standing with her arms crossed. Spencer’s, like, two feet taller than her. “Open it.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the brainy one,” Buffy says. “You know I’m taking you all back upstairs, right? You have to know that.”

“Fun side note,” Donna chimes in, “Not a prisoner; just visiting. I can leave at any time, really.”

Immediately, there’s a _whooshing_ sound and Buffy’s right hand shoots up and catches something inches from her face. Spencer sees it’s wrapped around the middle of an arrow, just fired by the equally dumbstruck Ripley.

“Don’t push it,” Buffy says. “Guards don’t have access to the lab. But I do have an all-access pass to kicking your asses, if you wanna just cut to that part.”

Spencer doesn’t know what to do. Standing there, unarmed, it seems she’s now in charge of deciding whether another bloodbath will –

But then the chainsaw roars to life again and Hermione fires some kind of blue light at Buffy, shouting, _“Stupefy!”_ and all hell breaks loose. Again.

Buffy ducks under the spell easily enough and jumps over Lucy’s swiping slash-attack, spinning with a kick to lay Hermione out with a single blow to the head. Ripley fires another arrow, but Buffy’s too close and too fast, so she tosses it aside and swings an angry fist at the tiny guard, missing first but then connecting. They trade blows, and Buffy ducks again under another incoming chainsaw attack before kicking Lucy’s knee out from under her, dropping the girl to the ground. As soon as the machine hits the ground, Buffy kicks the motor cage and it slides noisily down the hall back toward the entrance. When Lucy tries to rise to run after it, Buffy kicks her in the chest to knock her back down, taking the wind and the will out of her at once.

Spencer has no idea how Buffy’s doing this, fighting off several people at once without breaking a sweat. She’s a superhuman fighting machine. The five-foot-two, probable-former-cheerleader might be the scariest thing Spencer’s seen yet today. Maybe Buffy should submit a _killet_ application.

Quinn gets as close as she dares and fires one taser, then two at Buffy, but both miss, and one’s probe lands on Hermione’s legs, causing the limp body to shake and convulse. Quinn curses and yanks hard at the wire, but it takes a few tries before she can rip it free. Spencer remembers how painful just a few seconds of that voltage was, and she’s glad Hermione wasn’t awake to feel that pain for three times longer. But now there’s no telling when she’ll wake up.

“I can’t get a clear shot!” Vasquez calls to Ripley, as she continues circling the action, flamethrower poised to fire. “You’re too close!” Her girlfriend takes another punch to the face, then a fist to the stomach, and Vasquez screams in rage and fires a blazing stream of orange, but Buffy’s too fast and shifts the fight several feet away. _“GET OFF YOUR ASS,”_  Vasquez yells at Spencer.

She realizes she’s been standing frozen on the spot, helpless, watching the others fight her battle. The hall comes into wide view as she takes in the whole scene. Ripley, getting beaten to a pulp as Vasquez abandons her weapon and joins the fistfight. Hermione, unconscious but hopefully breathing. Donna’s now running over to pick up Spencer’s sledgehammer and get in on the action, shouting, _“BACK OFF, BITCH!”_  as she swings the brick-on-a-stick into the open air where Buffy’d been several seconds before. It’s completely ineffective, but at least she’s trying, which is more than—

 _“Spencer!”_  Quinn’s got Hermione’s hands and is trying to pull her out of harm’s way without being noticed. She motions her head at room G36. _“Help me!”_  she whispers. Her eyes are full of remorse, and Spencer knows Quinn’s thinking about a future conversation with Aphasia. Assuming they all live through this. The symphony of traded blows and broken bones in the background isn’t promising.

Spencer runs to the near wall where the severely damaged Boomer head lies dripping ooze onto the ground. Grabbing it, Spencer hurries over to the door to Becky’s room and holds the gray eyes up to the scanner. The laser traces back and forth several times, like it’s unable to detect a code at all. Spencer grunts in frustration and tries to block out the sounds of pain behind her as Lucy takes a loud, cracking kick to the ribs.

“Open the door,” Quinn threatens.

“I’m trying!” Spencer snaps back. She takes her elbow and awkwardly rubs each of Boomer’s eyeballs, clearing away a layer of blood and pus from her anger fit earlier. With a second try, the scanner beeps and the door slides open as Vasquez cries out in pain behind them and the sledgehammer bangs loudly on the ground yet again.

Quinn and Spencer lift Hermione a few inches off the ground and carry her inside, hoisting her onto the bed, wand still firmly in her fist. Spencer checks for a pulse, and sure enough, it’s faint but it’s there. “She’ll be okay.” They run back out together, and Spencer scans Boomer’s head one more time to close the door before Buffy can stop them. Two seconds later, Hermione’s locked safely inside, hopefully to wake up before she starves to death, should her friends not survive the day to come back for her. Spencer shakes away the thought that they may have just put Aphasia’s girlfriend inside a tomb.

“Anybody tired yet?” Buffy says joyfully and connects with Vasquez’s face.

Lucy and Ripley are stumbling and bleeding but say nothing. Donna’s hunched over and panting off to the side, hands on her knees and sledgehammer on the ground. It’s clear that their four-against-one won’t hold out much longer. Buffy’s just too strong. Stronger than anyone Spencer’s ever seen, except for maybe F—

_Faith._

Stepping into the ring, Spencer says loudly, over the distant buzz of the chainsaw forth feet away, “I guess Faith was right about you.”

That sure gets Buffy’s attention. She pauses the action, as if taking a halftime break, though it’s clearly her opponents who need it more. Standing up straight and cocking her head back slightly, she considers Spencer’s words and takes the bait. “That’d be a first.”

“She said you were ‘wicked strong’ and had really fast hands,” Spencer starts, then looks at Ripley, Vasquez, Donna, and Lucy, “but you just could never seem to finish a girl off.”

The look on Buffy’s face shows Spencer struck a nerve.

Spencer arches an eyebrow at Buffy with a glare that would make the Fabray sisters proud. “I guess you just don’t have what it takes.”

Buffy locks eyes on Spencer, and everyone else fades into the background as she steps forward, closing the gap between them. Her expression turns predatory, playful but hungry. “That sure wasn’t the case an hour ago when she was screaming my name. Or maybe your little rebel gang was too busy running in circles to hear it.”

Spencer laughs. “Right. Because she’s not the biggest liar you’ve ever put your stake inside.” Buffy’s eyes narrow. “She brags all the time about how good she is at faking it. It’s kind of what she’s known for.”

The wheels are turning in Buffy’s head; Spencer can see it all over her face. But then, her expression changes as the sledgehammer crushes against Buffy’s shoulder from behind, sending her down to the ground hard.

Donna seems surprised she actually made a successful blow, but adds, “Shit, sorry! I tried for her head. It’s just so bloody heavy.”

Buffy groans in pain and rolls over, starting to get up, but Quinn quickly reaches into Donna’s pocket and pulls one of the spare tasers from her pocket. She fires quickly at Buffy’s chest, and the probes latch on like nipple clamps. Nobody stops the flow of electrons, they just watch as it runs itself out, finally incapacitating the guard after twenty long seconds of frying.

When everything stops, the only sound is the continuous hum of the chainsaw in the distance, which Lucy takes the opportunity to retrieve. She silences it to save whatever gas may be left.

“Is she dead?” Ripley asks, nudging Buffy’s arm with her foot.

Spencer checks for a pulse and finds it’s faint, but there. Damn. She sighs. “Faith said she’s surprisingly hard to kill.”

“I have some ideas,” Lucy says, chainsaw balanced on her shoulder.

“No,” Quinn says, “Mine’s better.”  She and Lucy exchange some knowing glances and then get to work.

While Ripley and Vasquez tend to each other’s wounds, Spencer and Quinn grab Buffy’s arms and start to drag her off to the side. Donna tries to help by lifting her feet and pushing her along.

“Ready?” Lucy asks, leaning down by the wall.

“Do it,” Spencer replies.

Lucy aligns her eyes and opens the door to G38 once more. Holding their breath, Quinn, Spencer, and Donna shove the crumpled body into the room, and Lucy scans it closed right away before Faith and Santana can finish asking what’s going on.

“May the best woman win,” Spencer says.

“That’s fucked up,” Vasquez says, rubbing her shoulder. Nobody disagrees.

But the problem isn’t entirely solved, Spencer realizes. “Can you restrict access to this room, so that only you can open it?” she asks Lucy. “Otherwise she’ll be able to get out once she wakes up.”

“Assuming there’s enough left of her,” Quinn says dryly.

_Well, yes._

“Yeah, I think so,” says Lucy. She presses a button, scans again, and presses more buttons. It makes a new beep sequence that sounds affirming. “That should do it.”

“Let’s hope so,” Spencer says. And for the first time in what feels like hours, the women have a moment of peace and quiet to regroup. Looking around, she takes a mental inventory. Hermione and Faith are officially off the roster. Ripley and Vasquez are bruised and battered, but standing. Donna’s shaken and tired but still here. Quinn and Lucy seem fine, but they’re mass murderers, so god only knows with them. As for Spencer herself, the jury’s still out. They have to keep moving forward, if she can figure out what the hell that means. The DYAD logo is staring her in the face, laughing at her.

So close, yet so far away.

“So, what now?” Vasquez asks Ripley.

“You need to rest. Let’s open one of these rooms and lie –”

“I’m fine,” Vasquez snaps back, “But if you wanna go take a break, I’ll stand guard.”

“No,” Ripley says. “We’re not done here.” She looks at Spencer. “There has to be a way in we haven’t thought of.”

“Well,” Donna starts, “if we’re finished with these doors, I nominate we throw out that wretched _head_ that’s dripped all over everything.” She picks it up by the hair and carries it past the group. “I could go another ten lifetimes without seeing another one of those crylon buggers.”

“Sure,” Spencer says, only half listening. She’s still staring at the door. Maybe if she tries hard enough, she can open it telepathically with The Force. She certainly wants it badly enough. To her left, she hears Donna shout, _“Good riddance, bitch!”_  and slam a door.

Spencer turns at the noise.

Sure enough, the door has a regular handle, no lock. No retinal scanner. Where the display would be, under the G39 sign, there’s a simple placard that says _WASTE._

Spencer’s eyes go wide as she looks at Lucy, then Ripley. The garbage room at the bottom of the chute.

Maybe they’re not at a dead end after all. Well, for various meanings of the word “dead.”


	54. The Place of Screams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It feels strange being pretty sure you’re about to walk into a room that has chunks of dead women in it.

Spencer steadies herself, second in line behind Vasquez. Ripley, Lucy, and Donna are armed and ready to bring up the rear. A quick peek in the slot on the door revealed a pitch-black room (and a smell as bad as you’d expect in a garbage room), so they’re not taking any chances. Vasquez slowly opens the door, filling the space with light from the hallway, but it’s still full of shadows, and the room seems to be larger than they thought.

“Anybody see the lights?” Quinn asks. Spencer reaches inside the door frame for a switch but comes up empty. Nobody replies.

“I can light this place up,” Vasquez offers, but Spencer quickly objects.

“No! If you start a trash fire, we might not be able to get out.” That’s true but only half the story. A part of Spencer is scared she might learn what burning, rotted flesh smells like.

It appears the door is at the northwest corner of the room, which stretches out to the right beyond the reach of their limited light source. Spencer slowly steps into the darkness, hoping her eyes will adjust soon. Right hand balancing the two-hundred-pound sledgehammer on her shoulder, she keeps her left stretched out in front of her, waving slowly to feel for any walls or posts in the way. About twenty feet from the door, she feels something and quickly retracts, then tries again.

It’s a tight, thick string.

Spencer jumps back and prays this isn’t what she thinks it is. Stepping backward, she reaches Quinn and holds on to her arm. “Somebody get the lights. _Now_.”

“You got it.” Vasquez arms and fires a burst of flames toward the ceiling, illuminating the space for two seconds before darkness falls over them again.

Spencer winces against the sharp contrast, squinting at the burst of light, and she doesn’t get a good look at the room. “Again,” she says. She holds her hands like visors over her eyes and stares in the destination of the string. She’s ready.

Vasquez fires again, and this time Spencer sees it.

A giant spider web.

She screams, _“Holy shit!”_  and leaps back toward Vasquez at the same time Donna screams and stumbles, “Was that…that was…”

“Let’s get out of here,” Ripley says, heading back toward the door.

“Right behind you,” Donna says. “I don’t ever want to see that ag—”

With a loud clicking sound, the room comes into full, bright view.

“Found it!” Lucy calls cheerfully behind them.

Everyone stares in terrified awe at the masterpiece before them. It stretches thirty feet long across the room, slanting down at about a sixty-degree angle from the ceiling to the floor. Yellow string coiled together half an inch thick at the center orbits, crisscrossing with thinner, radial cords that extend out to latch on various points of the room. As she looks closer, Spencer can see other colors of thread woven in as well, like a kaleidoscope of fabric or one of those multicolor friendship bracelets that normal kids make at summer camp. It’s easily ten times bigger than anything Spencer ever saw in her cell. And ten times as terrifying. The flung Boomer head seems stuck in it, just left of center.

When she makes herself look away, Spencer starts to see the full picture of the _Uterius_ ’s garbage room. There are of course scattered trash bags and rotting material, but they’re not what’s drawing her attention -- in the corner, a pile of ratted ends of yellow towels, at least a hundred of them. Strewn around the room, stray foam cups and underwire pieces from the picked-clean frames of countless bras. And a few feet from where she’s standing, the waistband of her long-lost pair of panties.

Reflecting on that fateful day in the bathroom, Spencer realizes there must have been evil spiders there as well, since Beth would have no need to take any artificial thread. But it’s not that surprising. _Everybody_ was in that goddamn bathroom that day. Maybe Beth was just trying to warn her to keep an eye on her stuff. She issued a lot of warnings in her time.

She truly was a damn fine spider. Unlike these motherfuckers.

There’s a trail of remains from various undergarments and stolen uniforms, leading to the far side of the room. It stops a few feet shy of the giant pile of corpses.

From where she’s standing, she can’t tell what heads belong to what bodies, or what arms might have legs to go with them. There are just _a lot_ of them, and they seem to be clogging up the bottom of a silver, metal, square hole in the wall. The base of the chute leading up to the kitchen. She was right. It doesn’t feel as great as she thought it would.

“There they are,” she says, pointing across the room. “All the girls the spiders took. Alex Vause, Aeryn Sun, Paulie…everyone.” Her voice trails off as she realizes it’s a bigger pile than she anticipated. Even if they were in fact only taking one girl per month, they could’ve been working for as much as a year before Spencer arrived. But then, it’s hard to tell just how many there are when each body is partially eaten.

The six women start moving closer to the chute, letting the door close behind them, when Spencer swears she sees a slight movement in the web lines up ahead. It’s subtle, but it stops her in her tracks, heart pounding. She instantly looks down at the floor, as if expecting to see another dozen spiders closing in on her, but there’s no way to know. With so many scattered pieces of fabric on the ground, they could easily be hiding under anything. Maybe she just imagined the movement. Maybe it was the light.

But then a pile of shredded garments in the corner starts rustling, and Spencer can’t breathe.

_“Guys…”_

Ripley’s reaching her arm out to the nearest people and backing away slowly, Quinn, Donna, and Vasquez right in step with her. Everyone’s eyes are on the motion in the far corner of the room, underneath the end of the web by the base of the garbage chute. Even with the lights on, all Spencer can see is the shuffling of clothes low to the ground, not whatever is causing it, but then the negative space becomes shiny blackness, and there is form and shape. And legs.

Eight legs.

“Oh my god,” Spencer says, trembling, and still frozen on the spot.

One long, black leg tosses a pink bra aside, uncovering eight eyes and a giant mouth, and the spider pulls itself carefully onto the far edge of the web. It’s freakishly large, like something out of a horror movie. The abdomen alone must be close to three feet long, while each leg might stretch out to four feet. The large eyes are each the size of softballs and staring right at Spencer and her friends. As it moves closer, Spencer can see the same giant, neon blue symbol on its back, only this time, it’s large enough that she can make out what it is.

It’s the DYAD logo.

And still, the creepiest thing about this monstrous spider heading to devour them might be the yellow, shredded half-towel hanging off its head like a veil or a bad blonde wig. It would seem comical on a harmless household pet, like a Halloween costume, but Spencer immediately recognizes it as a sign of intelligence in this beast. It’s mocking them.

“It’s so beautiful!” Lucy says. She sets her chainsaw down carefully and steps forward as the others quickly run in the opposite direction screaming. Her eyes are wide with wonder, like she’s seeing a unicorn or something else she could’ve only ever dreamed of.

“Open it! Come on!” Donna yells, banging against the metal door.

“I’m trying!” Ripley’s grasping and clawing, but there’s no handle on the inside.

They’re trapped.

Suddenly, a terrible noise like a screeching bark mixed with a roar fills the room, and Spencer covers both her ears. She didn’t know spiders could make noises, but there’s no telling just what they’re dealing with here.

With a delightful chuckle, Lucy replies, “Hi there!” But she’s clearly missing the point, and the spider howls louder with its front two arms flailing when Lucy doesn’t back away.

“OH, FUCK OFF,” Donna screams back at it. She grabs Lucy’s chainsaw off the floor, runs a few steps forward, and chucks the machine right at the spider’s head.

“HEY!” Lucy yells, but it’s too late. The chainsaw connects squarely in the spider’s eyes, causing it to rear back and howl even louder. Lucy’s weapon falls through the string web and lands on the ground under the monster. “Leave her alone!”

But Donna ignores her. “TAKE THAT, BITCH,” she cries confidently. It seems more threatening in her British accent. “I SEE WHAT NASTY SHIT YOU’VE BEEN UP TO IN HERE, AND WE’RE NOT GONNA LET IT HAPPEN ANYM—”

In an instant, the spider scrunches down and pounces like a cat on top of Donna, wrapping its front legs around her and plunging its fangs onto her face. Spencer screams and grabs Quinn’s arm, pulling her to the far end of the room as Vasquez and Lucy quickly follow. Ripley picks the sledgehammer off the ground – Spencer has no idea when she dropped it – and starts pummeling the spider as it devours Donna, but it’s moving too fast for her to get a clear shot at a vital section. It seems she’s trying to avoid the face to spare whatever might be left of Donna underneath.

“ELLEN!” Vasquez shouts, voice thick with desperation, “COME ON!”

Grunting in frustration, Ripley gets a few more hits in, injuring two of the spider’s legs, but it doesn’t slow down its meal.

“STOP IT! STOP HURTING HER!” Lucy cries, and Spencer shares the sentiment until she realizes who Lucy’s trying to defend.

Ripley screams in rage and gives up, throwing the sledgehammer at the spider with all her might, but it barely makes a dent, and Ripley runs over to join the others in the corner, tears streaming from her eyes. With the spider adequately distracted, Lucy runs over to the web and reaches through a large opening, fingers outstretched toward her chainsaw, but she can’t quite reach it. Spencer can only imagine how nasty this could all get if Lucy comes out swinging.

Vasquez steps forward and screams, “MY TURN, ASSHOLE.” Powering on the flamethrower, she kicks it into maximum blast and lets it rip. A huge wave of blue and orange fire bursts forward like a firehose, lighting up the room like the Fourth of July. As if on cue, Madonna Power Hour kicks off, blasting “Ray of Light” in the hallway. The spider releases its hold on Donna and howls in agony, turning to attack Vasquez, but the flames are just too strong. Vasquez can’t seem to control the weapon, setting the entire room ablaze with a wave of destruction. The web catches fire immediately, as do the shredded clothes all along the floor. The towel threads around the spider’s head keep a fire burning there, blinding the spider as its row of eyes begins melting. Its screams of agony, matched only by Lucy’s cries of rage and empathy, are drowned out by the perky synthesizer drum beats echoing through the garbage chute.

By the time the flamethrower runs out of fuel, the entire room is charred black, leaving embers of the various fabrics sizzling around a very burnt and dead giant spider. The sole orange flame clings to handle of the sledgehammer on the ground. The survivors, sans Lucy, huddle close in the corner beside the pile of body parts, surveying the wasteland. If the walls had been flammable, they’d be dead by now. But even still, they don’t feel very alive. And they’re still trapped in this oven of death. Lucy’s casting a look of ultimate hurt and betrayal, tears streaming down her filth-covered cheeks. Spencer’s crying too, but for better reasons.

Even if Donna had survived having her face eaten off, she never stood a chance against the fire. She’s unrecognizable, and Spencer can’t bring herself to look at the body. The group takes a moment of silence, whether they mean to or not. There just doesn’t seem any point in arguing, and it won’t undo what’s been done. They barely knew Donna, but she’d fought by their side all day. After coming here to save Dolores Umbridge, she ended up succumbing to the same, terrible fate. It just didn’t seem fair.

Lucy reaches for her chainsaw, now that there’s nothing in her way. She coughs, bringing into focus how much harder it is to breathe with all the smoke; it isn’t escaping through the open chute fast enough.

Spencer knows they don’t have much time before they start to lose function from oxygen deprivation. “There has to be a way out!” she says, but the options don’t look good.

Quinn walks over to the pile of dead girls and starts moving them aside, one arm and leg and head at a time. Lucy sees her idea and starts helping, and they quickly clear the entrance to the garbage chute. The last pieces to clear are the same ones that Spencer saw when Hermione floated them up to her.

_How was that only a few hours ago?_

Quinn says, “Push me up,” and starts crawling up the chute. But it’s at least ten feet high and angled in such a way that she can’t get her whole body in right without being turned around. The blood and guts smeared along the side make it impossible for her to get a grip on the sides. Even with Spencer and Vasquez hoisting her up by her feet, she can’t get high enough to grab the top of the chute. Quinn drops with a loud clang and crawls back out, smeared with the messy remains of former inmates.

“Now what,” she asks.

“I don’t know,” Spencer says, crossing the room to sit by the door. “Stay low to the ground. Cover your face, breathe through your uniform.” Kicking aside some burnt towel hems, she squats down and lifts the flap for fresh air. She has a clear view of rooms G40, 38, and 36 from here. The spiders who went after Quinn had easy access to her from here, just like the ones who’d been living in Aphasia’s bunk had access to Spencer. They just can’t seem to get far enough away.

Suddenly, Spencer hears the sound of footsteps echoing down the white hallway. High heels. _“Someone’s coming!”_  Peeking through the flap, she trembles as her mind runs through the list of possibilities – inmates, guards, staff – but she has no idea who might be approaching. Who’s left alive at this point? Someone they could call to for help? At this point, she’d settle for Mistress Berry. Anyone who could open the door.

_Please, please, please…_

The steps get louder and louder, then finally Spencer sees an older brunette in a dress suit and glasses step into view. She carries herself with confidence, but she looks like she just pulled herself together. And the moment she sees the blood spatter on the pristine white floor from their tussle with Buffy, the woman slows to a stop, just inside Spencer’s view. She says nothing, just stares down at it, then follows the trail over to the far wall, where Spencer threw the head against the door to G40. Finally, she looks to her left, as if seeking for answers where Spencer can’t see.

_“Well. This is embarrassing.”_

It’s Sue.

Spencer gives a very emphatic quieting signal to her friends, pointing and mouthing, _“SUE_.”

“I should think so,” the woman replies.

Any cry for help evaporates in Spencer’s burning throat.

“Janitorial standards aren’t what they used to be,” Sue tries to play it off.

The woman turns her head slightly, curious, and furrows her brow. She looks right at the door to the waste room, and Spencer quickly backs out of sight, careful not to let the flap drop and draw attention. “Something’s burning,” the woman says.

“We’re right below the engine room,” Sue replies. She steps forward, looking more disheveled than usual, and carves a path around the worst of the stains to approach the retinal scanner for the lab. It beeps twice, sliding open with a _whoosh_ , and Sue turns to extend a hand to her companion. “Madam President?”

With a wide step over a fresh puddle of blood, President Roslin follows Sue inside and the door closes behind them.

Spencer feels paralyzed. All this time, Sue was out there, accessible. She must have been in one of the rooms on this floor that they didn’t check. But wouldn’t the noise of the chainsaw have drawn her out? Unless it was one of the A rooms, like the ones near the elevator or at the far end of the hall. They never went down that way, past the staircase. Spencer was in such a hurry to get to the lab, they blew right past it. And now they’re trapped in here, choking to death, and there’s no one coming to rescue them. The fact that they know Sue’s current location is of little comfort. She’d trade it for an oxygen tank. Or Donna.

She looks at the lab door just a few feet away, taunting her. Sue made it look so easy to get inside. At the same time, Spencer isn’t sure she even wants to know what’s behind that door. If Sue keeps a couch-size spider in her trash room, there’s no telling what monstrosities might be in the lab proper. There could be something much, much worse. For all they know, the spider was a reject project, thrown away.

“Wait,” Spencer says, rising to her feet. “The lab produces waste. They’re probably not going to take the trash out the front door if this room runs alongside it. There’s gotta be a hatch somewhere.”

Only, there isn’t. And any retinal scanner would’ve been fried in the fire, anyway. The five women look at each wall but everything’s blackened and burned. Still, the near wall has the remains of trash bags at the base of it, so it has to be here.

Quinn gets up and bangs a fist on the metal wall three times, hard.

“Yes, please make more noise,” Lucy starts, but Quinn tells her to shut up. She steps a few feet to the right and bangs her fist again in a dull thud. Quinn repeats this eight or nine times with the same result, but then, the sound changes. It’s deeper, more resounding. Hollow. “Here.”

“Oh my god,” Spencer says, rushing to that spot. She runs her fingers over the charred metal, trying to feel for anything, and sure enough, there’s an outline of a rectangle about the same size as the open chute. “Help me get it open.”

Only, their fingers can’t wedge in and they don’t have anything to pry it open. They try the last of Ripley’s arrows from the crossbow, but it snaps in half under the pressure.

“Shit,” Ripley says. “Keep trying.”

Faith’s knife would come in handy right about now, Spencer thinks, or Buffy’s super strength. Aphasia probably has a crowbar under her bunk, but that won’t help them now. Something to remember for next time they try to break into a top-secret laboratory in space prison. Right now, they just have to find something long, thin, and metal that’s strong enough to…

_Oh boy. Here we go._

Spencer walks over to Lucy and says, “Here,” prompting for Lucy to hand over her weapon. “We need it.”

Lucy glares, indignant at the idea of anyone else holding her baby. _“I_ need it.”

“We can use it to get the chute open!” This is true. Maybe. “I’ll give it right back,” she adds. This is a lie. Probably.

Stepping closer to Spencer’s face, Lucy doesn’t break eye contact as she pushes the chainsaw against Spencer’s stomach.

“Help me?” Spencer says to Vasquez. “Hold her back.” She gestures to Lucy.

“Why?” Vasquez asks, but Spencer’s already in motion. Lifting it high over her head, she slams the weight of the chainsaw against the floor as hard as she can, grimacing against the rippling vibration in her arm as the engine case shatters. Screws, springs, and bloody, bedazzled plastic bits scatter all over the floor.

“NO!!” Lucy cries and throws herself at Spencer, fist reared back and fire in her eyes. “STOP!” Vasquez grabs her around the torso and pulls her away just in time, and Ripley steps over to give her girlfriend a hand.

“Make it quick,” Vasquez grunts.

Spencer and Quinn look at each other, then the pile of shattered pieces on the floor. There’s no going back from this now. They quickly remove the teeth chain from the long guide bar, rendering it safe to hold. Without a screwdriver, parts are still hanging together at the base, but at least now they have a long, flat, strong metal tool with a handle.

Amid Lucy’s threats and curses, Quinn and Spencer lift the broken chainsaw and wedge the end of the guide bar into the top of the chute door. It’s too high off the ground to have much leverage, and it’s still hard to breathe deeply, but after a minute, they manage to shimmy the metal inside, at least enough to pry it open an inch.

“We got it,” Spencer says, and they switch to pulling it down with their hands. It comes more easily as the door opens forward, revealing the bottom of a chute slide that must lead up into the lab. It reminds Spencer a bit of the drop-off at the post office. Back on Earth where there are normal things and you don’t find yourself standing in a room with a giant dead spider and several mass murderers.

Once it’s down all the way, Spencer walks over the Lucy and hands her the remains of the broken chainsaw. “Thanks,” she says sincerely, though it’s clearly not received well. As soon as Vasquez lets go, Lucy slaps Spencer across the face, the way she used to with Faith. It stings like a motherfucker.

Maybe she deserved it. But Spencer’s dealt with worse today.

One by one, the women climb into the garbage chute. This one’s much shorter, not going up a whole floor, and the others are able to push Spencer through first. She’s barely able to fit her shoulders through the tight squeeze, but as the tallest among them, it’s up to her to push open the chute door at the top so they can climb out. Wherever it leads.

Her entrance is squeaky and graceless, as she awkwardly bangs and booms her way out of the chute. She seems to be in a back room or at the end of a hallway. There’s no one and nothing around, just walls and corners. The blaring radio doesn’t seem as loud in here, but Spencer can clearly make out all the notes of Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.”

“Come on,” she calls down to Ripley, reaching her hands out to pull her up. Quinn follows behind, then Lucy, who seems intent on bringing what remains of her beloved chainsaw. Spencer starts to argue but then realizes it’s the last semblance of a weapon they have left. Vasquez pushes Lucy up, then pulls herself through. They close the chute door behind them, taking a moment to recover in the fresh air, hunched over and coughing.

Spencer silently promises Donna they’ll come back for her body.

Against the pristine surfaces of the very clean laboratory, she can see just how gnarly they’ve become. Lucy’s no longer the only one covered in blood spray. Ripley and Vasquez each have black eyes and blood trails from their noses. Quinn’s sporting a cut across her cheek, and all their uniforms are ripped in at least two places. Everyone is coated in a layer of gray smoke and ash from the fire. The pink in Quinn’s hair is barely visible anymore. Looking at her own hands, Spencer can see she’s no better off and hopes this lab doesn’t have any mirrors.

She runs a hand through her very messy hair, or at least as far as she can get through it. “We ready?”

But no one seems to know what they’re ready for anymore. “No weapons,” Vasquez points out.

“Maybe we won’t need them,” Lucy offers, but Ripley just scoffs. “I never agreed to killing Sue,” she continues. “I came to save Quinn, and that’s what I did.”

Quinn looks at Lucy, suspicious, but doesn’t argue the point.

“Congratulations, princess,” Vasquez says. “Now it’s our turn. And she’s going to die.”

 _“Whoa, who’s dying?”_  comes a new voice from behind them.


	55. The Doctors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

“Please say it’s not me,” the woman continues, “because I’m in the middle of an awesome biogenetics book and I’d really like to finish it first.”

The five women just stare at her. This isn’t one of the Lewis-Burke-Robbins doctors, and Spencer’s not in the mood to meet any more new people today.

“You look like you’ve had a rough day,” she continues. “I can help.” She’s young and white with long, dark, neat braids like dreadlocks, pulled back. Her glasses frame her adorable but nervous face. Spencer sees an ID badge pinned to her white lab coat, right under a large DYAD logo, but she can’t read it from where she’s standing. Her voice sounded sincere, but Spencer isn’t trusting anyone working with Sue.

“Take us to Sue. Right now,” Spencer says, steeling her expression.

“Sure, Spencer, I can do that,” the doctor says, holding her hands out.

“How do you know my name?” she asks, stepping forward.

“I – That’s a long story. Maybe you should talk to Sue. I’ll go get her. Maybe while you take a minute to clean up? We have a shower in the b—”

“NOW!” Spencer yells, causing the doctor to stumble back a few steps.

“Sure, right,” she says nervously. “I’ll just go,” she points down the hall. But Spencer’s already walking fast in that direction, blowing past her, and the others quickly follow. Vasquez shoulder checks the doctor hard as she brings up the rear. “Spencer, wait!” the doctor calls, but nobody’s stopping.

It’s like a maze with high, white walls with doors on both sides of the narrow hallways. Some doors have small, high windows, implying there might be someone inside worth seeing, but Spencer isn’t about to find out. Not right now.

She turns a left corner, following what seems to be the arterial path, which leads her to a locked door with another goddamn scanner. The label above it reads, _“RESEARCH & DEVELOPMENT.”_  But it’s the big sign on the door that intrigues Spencer. The giant red letters that say, **_RESTRICTED ACCESS_.**

“Open this door,” she calls back to the doctor, who’s still following them.

Catching up to them, Spencer can now see on her lab coat that she’s talking to Dr. Cosima Niehaus, whatever the hell kind of name that is. “Sue’s not in there, okay? She’s that way, and I will take you there.”

“Not until you open this door.”

Cosima takes a quick glance at each of the five battle-worn women, hanging a little longer on Quinn and then Lucy. Finally, she pushes her glasses up her nose and looks into Spencer’s eyes, imploring. “You really don’t want me to do that. _Trust me._ Let’s just go talk to Sue.”

Before Spencer can respond, Vasquez grabs Cosima’s neck from behind and slams her face against the retinal scanner, breaking her glasses and probably her nose. The scientist cries out in pain, and Spencer calls out to Vasquez to stop, but she doesn’t back down.

“Hold open her eyelids,” Vasquez grunts, restraining the girl’s arms behind her back.

“Hey! Whoa, stop. Don’t…” Cosima shouts, holding out her hands, “Just…don’t. I’ll open the door. Jesus.” She wipes her bloody nose with the sleeve of her jacket, staining the starched white fabric bright red. Removing her cracked glasses, she leans down and lets the scanner read her teary eyes.

Spencer should be focused on the anticipation of what important things could be behind the door, but she’s zoned out, wondering what she would’ve done if Cosima hadn’t complied. Would she lay her hands on an innocent woman and force her to do something against her will like that? This group has done a lot of shitty things today, and Spencer’s seen a violent side of herself that rarely comes to the surface. It’s shaking her to the core that she doesn’t know if she would’ve drawn a line and told Vasquez, “No.” Desperate as she is for answers, she just might’ve done it. Hopefully she’ll never have to find out. Still, it’s making her sick to her stomach just to think about. This place is turning her into someone she can’t recognize anymore. Making her capable of terrible things. Spencer doesn’t know what kind of person she is anymore.

But as the door swings open and she sees what’s behind it, Spencer’s no longer sure she’s even a person at all.

The large room contains a row of giant clear cylinders, floor to ceiling, maybe four feet in diameter. Each one is filled with what looks like water with tubes and wires connecting to a lifeform suspended inside. Naked, curled in a fetal position, limbs tangled and brown hair floating freely. The light casts a greenish tint over each one, but they’re clearly human. There must be at least ten at different stages of development, and Spencer can see a face most clearly on the third tank closest to where she’s standing.

It’s her.

They’re _all_ her.

“What the fuck?” Vasquez says. “What the fuck is that?”

A new woman steps out from behind the middle of the row, curious about the new voice in her workspace. She’s taller with wavy, blonde hair down to her chin. Her eyes go wide, seeing the intruders, and she says in a thick French accent, “Um, hello…Spencer…” She moves forward with her hands out, as if trying to awkwardly but casually usher them back out the door. She finds Cosima’s eyes and asks, not at all subtly, “What’s going on?”

Spencer realizes she’s seen this woman before, whispering quietly with Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins before they closed the door in her face. Now it’s time for some answers. “How about you tell me,” she says, unwilling to move from the spot.

The woman, who Spencer can see now is named Delphine Cormier, according to her DYAD badge, looks back and forth from Spencer to Cosima, unsure of what to do. It’s as if her lab has never been invaded by a blood-covered mob of mass-murdering lesbians before, at least half of whom appear to be clones of some kind. Maybe she didn’t read that page in the safety manual.

“I…” Delphine stammers, “You can’t be in here. I’m sorry. You have to leave.” She tries to gently nudge Spencer out the door, but Spencer’s not going anywhere.

“WHY AM I IN TUBES?” she yells, pointing at the horror that she can never unsee.

“Welcome to Clone Club,” Quinn says from the back. She doesn’t sound the least bit amused. Spencer wonders which one of those tubes used to hold her non-girlfriend, growing like a sea monkey in a child’s experiment.

She’s going to be sick.

But before she can retch all over the starched white lab coats holding her back, she hears the familiar high heels echoing in the hall behind her.

 _“We’re making huge progress,”_   they hear Sue say, _“especially in the age sixteen to twenty-five range. I think we’ll have doubled our annual projections by Christmas.”_

Delphine is now pushing Spencer harder, struggling to close the door, but Spencer’s not going to let that happen – not after what she did to get it open.

 _“That’s a very ambitious goal, Warden_ ,” says the owner of the heels. _“I hope you’re able to pull your head out of my ass long enough to write your year-end report.”_

They turn the corner and come into view as Sue replies, “I look forward to it.” Her eyes meet Spencer’s as the final word falls, and her expression instantly changes. She looks at Lucy, Quinn, Vasquez, and Ripley each in turn, and all color drains from her face. “Dr. Cormier,” she says carefully, in a thin attempt to hold her shit together. “You didn’t tell me we were having visitors today. I mean, of course, other than the all-important _President of Space_ , whose presence was announced loud and clear over the intercom hours ago when she arrived.” The statement is so pointed, it could take out someone’s eye. “Our extended conjugal visit should have given everyone onboard more than enough time to prepare for her visit to DYAD. Seeing that all prisoners were returned to their cells. _Closing any doors_ _that need closing_.”

With that, Delphine elbows Spencer and pulls the door closed once and for all. But Spencer’s too distracted trying to make sense of Sue’s claim, thinking back over any announcements that day.

 _“You’re_ Code Pink?” ask Spencer.

“And who are you, exactly?” President Roslin says. “You all look like you’ve been living in an exhaust pipe.”

“I apologize, Madam President,” Cosima says, stepping in front of Spencer, “I believe what our indentured workers meant to say is that they’ll get back to scrubbing the engine room immediately.”

Spencer doesn’t know why Cosima’s covering for her, but she’s not going to argue the point.

Sue stares hard into Spencer’s eyes, looking deeply insulted by her very existence, and says, “The woman has breast cancer, inmate. Show some respect.”

 _That’s it, then…_ Spencer thinks. _Code Pink._ Pink ribbons. It wasn’t about Umbridge after all. If Sue’s been too busy getting fist deep in the cosmic Commander in Chief, she might have no idea Umbridge is even dead. But she would, of course, know that they’re escaped prisoners. Not revealing that means Sue is clearly trying to impress the powers that be and save face. This could be an opportunity right here and now to bring Sue down for what has to be a cloning operation she wants to keep secret. Spencer’s all for causing chaos for bad people and bringing truth to light, but if the President hauls Sue away now, Spencer will never get her answers.

“We’re sorry, Warden,” Spencer says, faking sincerity as much as she can. “Dr. Umbridge thought you might need some help scrubbing out your waste depositories, so we came right away. We need a few minutes to go over the status report with you before we head back upstairs. Some real nasty stuff this time. Fecal waste is up twenty-three percent this month. I think it’s the tacos.” It’s a huge bluff, but Spencer’s betting Sue wants Roslin out of here right now as much as they do.

Sue squints, thinking it over as she looks at the gang. Finally, she calls over her shoulder, “BECKY! Get in here.”

The short blonde with glasses comes running in, wearing a white lab coat much too big for her and carrying a clipboard. She takes one look at the crowd of women in the hallway and scowls. “What the hell are you looking at? Go crawl back in your shithole!”

 _“Becky,”_   Sue says, “I’m going to walk President Roslin back to her shuttle. Please take Miss Hastings, Ripley, and Vasquez to the lobby and wait there until I get back.”

Spencer casts Quinn a concerned glance. They’re being split up.

“Yes, warden!” Becky gives them a nasty look, like she’ll be happy to vent them out the nearest airlock.

Sue turns her attention to the scientists. “Dr. Niehaus and Dr. Cormier will see that the others are contained in Room 4.” Meaning Lucy and Quinn. The scientists acknowledge but remain quiet. “And nobody touch anything! You’re filthy and disgusting.” Meeting everyone’s eyes one last time, she points and says, “Ten minutes.” With that, she steers Roslin back the way they came, rambling on about their high success rates again.

As soon as they’re out of sight, Becky turns and snaps angrily, “You heard her! Let’s move!”

But Spencer’s not taking her eyes off Quinn, not after what they’ve gone through to get to her.

“It’s fine,” Quinn says. “Go.”

“That’s what you think, dumbass!” Becky says a little too gleefully. “Have fun in Room 4.” She laughs and then pushes Spencer full force with both hands to get her moving down the hall.

“Hey!” Spencer snaps back.

Reaching out from behind with both hands, herself, Vasquez grabs Becky’s shoulders and slams her against the nearest wall, knocking her out in one try. Nobody seems to know if they should admonish Vasquez or thank her. But focus quickly returns to the scientists, as if to say, _your move._

“That was impressive,” Cosima says to Vasquez, then looks at Spencer and adds, “You too, with the whole fecal waste thing. My sister would like you.” At Spencer’s confused expression, Cosima adds, “Not because she likes waste or anything! I mean, who honestly _likes_ fecal waste. I just meant you’re quick on your feet, and she would like you.” She quickly adds, “Not in a gay way, she’s not – well, I mean, she is …she’s a con artist.” But that doesn’t make it better. “Nevermind.” Delphine reaches over and gives her hand a little squeeze.

Spencer relaxes a little. “Thanks for the cover --” she looks at the ID badge -- “Dr. Niehaus. I know you didn’t have to do that.”

Cosima says, “You’re right, we didn’t. And call me ‘Cosima’. ‘Dr. Niehaus’ is what she calls me in bed.”

Spencer pushes that aside and says, “I’m sorry again about before. With your face. It’s quite literally the worst day of our lives. We’ve killed a lot of people and had the shit beaten out of us and watched our friend get eaten by a giant monster.”

“Monster?” Cosima says, worried, and looks at Delphine, who just shrugs.

“And now we’re here to get Sue to talk, and then probably kill her too. Is that gonna be a problem?”

Cosima and Delphine don’t know what to say and just look at each other, silently communicating with their eyes, gesturing at the door and elsewhere with little head tilts.

“Clock’s ticking,” Ripley says.

“We’ll help you,” Cosima says right away. “If you leave the lab intact. Our samples, files, slides, every piece of equipment goes untouched. Including the living ones. Nobody hurts the science. Or us, obviously.”

Now Spencer’s the one with the decision to make.

“Fine,” Ripley says. “Do you have any weapons?”

 _“Not_ fine!” Spencer counters, turning around. “Did you not see the assembly line of me’s in there?! Don’t think I’m not going to burn this place to the ground.”

“Don’t think we’ll let you,” Delphine says.

Cosima tries to reason with Spencer. “Hey, I know that was hard for you to see. I get it, believe me. But you can’t just flip a switch and make it go away. And those girls are what keeps the lights on around here. Something has to pay the bills.”

“You _SELL_ them?!” Spencer rages. “That’s…” But there isn’t a word for how horrible and disturbing it is. The prison is growing versions of her and selling them to the highest bidder.

“And with Sue out of the way,” Delphine says, “all that money comes to you. You could get a better lawyer, go for an appeal. Even parole.”

“I’m not going to _sell clones of myself_ to get out of prison! What kind of fucked up lab are you running?!”

“The same one that sold fifty-six copies of me,” says Lucy.

Spencer turns and looks at Quinn sympathetically, but that only draws attention to her. Cosima steps closer and tries to look through the layers of smoke and blood to the girl underneath. “Holy shit,” she says, smiling as she gets just a few feet away. “It’s really good to see you again, Lucy.”

Quinn rears back and punches Cosima square in the eye, knocking her to the ground, then turns to Delphine. “Weapons?”

Delphine is looking at her girlfriend on the ground but stays put. “I…I don’t think we have any.” At the look on Quinn’s face, she quickly adds, “Please don’t hit me! We’re still going to help you. Sue is terrible.”

Spencer leans down and checks on Cosima, helping her get up and wiping her face.

“I think I liked it better when all the violence was contained upstairs,” the scientist says, dabbing at her tender eye. “Not my finest day.”

“You and me both,” Spencer says.

“What’s in Room 4?” Lucy asks.

Delphine hesitates, then answers honestly, “The morgue. It’s where we dissect the bodies that don’t make it and harvest their –”

Suddenly, Spencer’s taken back to a memory of her very first day here, when Jessica Huang was telling a guard that four was an unlucky number. _Guess she was right._

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re going there,” Quinn says, getting in Delphine’s face. “Try again.”

“Sue doesn’t want you dead, trust me,” Delphine says, looking at Lucy. “You’re way too valuable to her. We said we weren’t going to hurt you and we meant it.” Delphine seems sincere, but Spencer’s scared to trust a stranger.

“We just agreed, no hurting the science,” Cosima adds. “You’re the science.”

Not quite the assurance they were looking for, but Quinn just rolls her eyes and says, “Whatever.” Spencer’s not going to argue with their new insurance policy. Especially since it looks like it might apply to her, too.

“We need to go,” Ripley says to Vasquez. Nodding her head toward Becky, Ripley asks the scientists, “Can you hide her?”

“Yeah, we got it,” Cosima says.

As Lucy and Quinn grab Becky’s feet and start to pull, Spencer says, “We also wouldn’t say no to some tampons.”

“Sure,” Delphine says.

****************

When the lab door slides open again and Sue reenters, the three of them are standing just inside, waiting. Spencer catches a glimpse of someone on the other side of the door and realizes it’s Greggs, the guard. Spencer had forgotten all about her since they don’t interact much upstairs. More than anything, it makes Spencer worry that she’s forgotten more of Sue’s reinforcements. They haven’t completely dismembered her army after all.

The four women are in DYAD’s front lobby, a simple receiving room with an empty desk and chair but no other furniture. Spencer’s front and center with Vasquez on her right and Ripley on her left. The warden walks in with a smile on her face, arms out like she’s thrilled to receive guests, and says, “I’m sorry I didn’t have lemonade and cookies waiting, ladies. I must have missed the Outlook reminder. I never did like that program. Either way, I should’ve recognized your putrid blood trails in my hallway, staining my floors like wine on a wedding dress.” Looking around, she asks, “Where’s Becky?”

“Something came up. We need to talk,” Spencer says. Now that she’s finally face to face with the woman who’s created this hell she’s been living in, her pulse is pounding with equal parts exhilaration and terror.

“I suppose we do. Though, I don’t know why you felt you needed to make such a godawful mess in my prison and infiltrate my top-secret laboratory. You know my office hours are posted just outside my door. Becky would be happy to make an appointment for you.”

And with that, Spencer Hastings finally snaps. “What the hell is going on around here? Why does a prison have a _secret laboratory_ that’s making _clones of people_ and _selling them_?! Why are there _killer spiders kidnapping girls_ and _eating them_?! Why is everything here so _horrible_?” She’s trying to keep her emotions in check, but it’s useless at this point. The tears are coming, heavy with exhaustion from everything they’ve been through. She wants to scream and collapse and run away and rip Sue’s heart out all at the same time.

Spencer wants to go home.

Sue furrows her brow and says, “I’m not sure what movie you think you’re watching, but this isn’t the big scene at the end where the villain reveals their entire plan for the folks at home just in time before the bomb goes off or the police arrive. Nobody’s coming for you. You’ve had your day of fun, and now it’s time for you to get the hell out of my face and into Solitary, where you will be living out the remainder of your pathetic, useless lives. We can do it the easy way or the hard way. Personally, I’d prefer whatever kills you fastest, as I’m remembering I don’t have enough open cells available for all three o—”

Vasquez lets out a war cry and takes off running toward Sue, ready to attack. The warden calmly pulls a taser out of her pocket and takes Vasquez down immediately. Ripley screams and steps to intervene, but Sue holds out a second taser in her other hand, aimed right at her, and Ripley stops. Vasquez continues to sizzle and shake like a fish out of water, foaming at the mouth after the first fifteen seconds. Sue lets the battery run itself out for maximum effect, leaving Vasquez quite unconscious and barely alive.

 _“Jenette,”_  Ripley cries, _“I’m sorry…I’m sorry...”_

“Oh, pull it together!” Sue yells as the taser finally gives out. “You’re such a goddamn crybaby. Every year it’s ‘ _Don’t take Jenette_ , _I can’t live without her’_ and all this mamby-pamby bullshit. I can’t take it anymore!”

“Then stop trying to kill her all the time!” Ripley yells back.

Sue points at Vasquez’s limp body and shouts, “SHE COULD BE INSEMINATED WITH YOUR ALIEN BABY!”

“NOBODY IS INFECTED WITH ALIENS,” Ripley shouts back.

Sue leans closer and sneers, “That’s what any alien host would say. I should’ve left you on the _No-homo_ where I found you.”

“Fine! Take her next.” Ripley’s voice cracks, and Spencer turns to see her friend finally crumbling under the pressure of the day’s events. “In December. Get her the hell away from here. Just…take her.” Ripley collapses into a squat, pulling her arms over her head as she buries her face in her knees.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to,” Sue says. When Ripley doesn’t take the bait, she continues. “Unless you mean that prisoner amnesty program I made up. Because that would just be sad and really embarrassing for you.”

With that revelation, both Ripley and Spencer look up at Sue. Spencer storms forward, ready to punch the bitch square in the tits, but Sue points the unused taser at her and says, “Ah ah ah…” in warning. “You’ll get your turn.” Dropping the Vasquez taser from her left hand, Sue walks over to Ripley and bends down so they’re level with each other. She taps Ripley on the knee with the fresh taser. “Did she not tell you? Every year, after you picked a name from the list, I went to her and told her that’s who she had to kill. Otherwise I wouldn’t let you out for Christmas.”

Spencer’s heart stops. This is beyond fucked up. Ripley screams, _“No!”_   into her knees, refusing to look Sue in the eye. _“She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.”_

“I’ve got a list of ten dead girls that say otherwise,” Sue says casually, like she’s talking to a friend. “It’s just crazy what people will do for lo—”

In a flash, Ripley springs to life, pouncing on Sue and knocking her to the ground. The taser fires but misses, and Ripley gets her ragged fingernails deep into the flesh of Sue’s cheek as she straddles her stomach. It looks deeply satisfying, and Sue’s cries of pain only make it better. They roll on the floor, bashing each other’s heads against the ground. Spencer waits until Sue manages to get on top, then comes up behind and swiftly kicks her prison-issue shoe as hard as she can between Sue’s open legs. She repeats the motion five or six times before Ripley regains dominance.

 _“Not…on…my…ship!”_  Sue cries, stealing the idea and kneeing Ripley in the groin with each word. With the moment of advantage, Sue pulls a third taser out of her bra, pushes Ripley to the ground, and zaps her collarbone. Spencer runs up to kick it away, but Sue reaches in her jacket again and says, “I don’t even remember how many I have up in here, but I’d love to find out. Wouldn’t you?”

Spencer freezes in her tracks. _She must have stocked up in the Cylon room on her way back from seeing the President out._

_I should’ve done that._

Sue drops the taser, still firing, and starts walking over to Spencer. “Maybe now you and I can finally have that heart to heart you’ve been so pathetically desperate for.”


	56. Quid Pro Blow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer stands frozen on the spot. She’s all alone with Sue (well, kind of), unarmed, with nowhere to run. No one’s coming for her unless she cries out, and even then, it could be her last words. Sue’s circling her like a predator. A taser-stuffed-bra, jumpsuit-wearing, clone-selling sex maniac. The voice of Madonna is ringing over the intercom and in Spencer’s ears, pleading to her papa not to preach.

_I’m in trouble deep, all right._

“I remember the fateful day Rizzles dragged your boney ass aboard my ship,” Sue says. “That was fun, wasn’t it? You were all scared of _space_ and crying for your mommy and asking stupid questions.” She walks over to the desk and leans against it. “Whattaya say we do it again? For old time’s sake.”

Spencer’s confused and doesn’t know what to say.

“No tricks,” Sue says. She goes around to the other side of the desk and pulls out a small, metal chair, not unlike the one Spencer sat in when she first arrived. “You just sit here in this chair – handcuffed, of course – and ask me anything you want. I’ll even answer with the truth, just for shits and giggles.”

 _There has to be a catch_ , Spencer thinks. It can’t be this easy. Maybe she won’t figure it out until she’s shackled, but there still has to be a way out somehow. And hey, who knows, maybe Sue does just want to talk, movie-villain comment aside.

The warden drags the chair to the middle of the lobby (noisily) and sets it facing her. She holds out a hand as if to say, _“After you.”_  Spencer sits and complies, putting her hands behind the back of the chair. “No funny business now,” Sue says as she pulls two sets of handcuffs out of her bra and restrains Spencer’s arms and feet without incident. Double checking their tightness, she walks over to Ripley and uses the taser wires to tie her ankles and wrists together. Satisfied with that job, Sue steps back in front of Spencer and leans down to meet her at eye level. “So. What’s on your mind? Girl trouble? If you need a makeover, I can see if Becky’s schedule is clear.”

Spencer blinks and searches Sue’s face, but it seems she’s serious. Now that Spencer has her chance, her mind suddenly goes blank. She’s been fighting all day for this opportunity, and she doesn’t want to waste it. Seeing Ripley on the floor, she starts with the most buzzing question. “Why make Vasquez kill people? Why lie to Ripley about the program? What’s in it for you?”

Sue reaches back into her jacket and pulls out another taser, saying, “I suggest you go one question at a time, for your sake.” But instead of firing the weapon, Sue holds it in her palm and wraps her fingers around it, hiding it in a fist. Then, without warning, she rears back and serves Spencer a strong right cross, busting her lip and almost knocking the chair over.

Spencer screams in pain and frustration, wincing at the throbbing in her face. Clearly, Sue’s promise was a steaming pile of horseshit, but she contests it anyway. “You said…you’d answer!”

“Oh, untwist your panties, Dumbelina. You’ve done interrogations before. You know I get to punch you in the face before I have to respond to anything.”

Spencer blinks through some tears. _There’s_ the catch. “I guess I forgot.”

“Well, I guess so,” Sue says with a little laugh. “I knew you were into this violence thing, but try to keep it in your pants and not seem so desperate. This isn’t Happy Spank Time with your gal pals. You don’t get a safeword here.”

_Bitch._

“But speaking of gal pals…” She looks at the bound and gagged woman on the floor like a proud parent watching their child sleep peacefully. “They have that magical, once in a lifetime kind of love, don’t they? It’s disgusting, and it’s beautiful, but mostly disgusting. It’s also surprisingly fun to mess with. They’re just so _easy!_   Did you see the look on her face?” Sue points to Ripley, pretty proud of herself. “She’ll believe anything! Amnesty program, ha!” She points at Vasquez. “And now she thinks _she_ ’s the killer!” Sue laughs like she’s never been more delighted with herself in her entire life. “And Butchy McButcherson over here _, she’s_ stupid enough to believe that _her_ girlfriend’s been the one killing people just to earn some afternoon delight! Even I’m not that narcissistic, and I promise you, that is really saying something. But she bought it; they all bought it. Becky tells me the whole prison bought my story. Women just love gossip, don’t they? I’m a bonafide genius. I should get a Nobel prize for this.” Sue looks back at Ripley and Vasquez and laughs again.

Spencer has so many questions she wants to ask, but her sore face is begging her not to. How is it possible that both Ripley and Vasquez are both innocent _and_ wrong?

Spencer flinches at the pain and steadies her breath. “Sounds like Ripley’s a perfect scapegoat. Congratulations.”

“Everyone hates her!” Sue exclaims with delight. “And the more deaths I pin on her, the longer she stays in Solitary, where she can’t talk to anyone about her terrible life choices.” Sue takes a quick pause and smiles. “Some people are just so fun to fuck with. That little ‘amnesty’ list is just the names of inmates I can’t stand. Didn’t matter to me who she picked, but the element of surprise is nice, just like getting a present.” Sue stops and looks at Spencer. “Have you ever airlocked someone, Chastings?”

Spencer lifts her eyes enough to stare daggers into Sue. “Not yet.”

“It’s my favorite holiday tradition, right up there with doing lines of fake snow and pooping logs down the chimney. You have no idea what a rush it is to push that little red button and watch someone you despise instantly suffocate and freeze to death.” She looks away wistfully like she’s having a moment. “It’s beautiful.”

And then a page from Jenny’s journal flashes in Spencer’s mind once more.

**_MARY CHRISTMAS_ **

Followed by, **_STOP HER_**.

Spencer’s had it wrong this whole time. Beth wasn’t trying to warn her about Ripley, it was about Sue. And now Sue’s managed to convince both Ripley and Vasquez that the other is the mass murderer to deflect suspicion from herself. Spencer’s not going to let her get away with this. Somehow.

But then, Sue’s face changes as her mood takes a turn, her eyes suddenly blazing. “And then last year that meddling, cheese breath, sloth-toed, frog fart of a woman came and _shit all over my playground!”_  Sue’s hands fall to her sides dramatically. “She ruined Christmas! ‘ _No no no, we can’t be letting Solitary prisoners out for any reason, Miss Sylvester. How terribly silly that would be. I’d have to report you, you know’,”_  Sue mimics with a gross face and terrible British accent. Then she turns and gets right in Spencer’s face, pointing a long finger between her eyes. “NOBODY ruins Christmas around here but me!” She pokes Spencer in the forehead hard, just because she can, and then turns to walk a few paces back the other way. “Soon as I’m done kicking your nosy ass, I’m gonna send that walking yeast infection to a galaxy far, far away.”

“You’re talking about Umbridge,” Spencer says, then quickly retracts, wincing again, “No! Not a question! Clarification!” She unclenches when the punch doesn’t come. The rules of this game aren’t in her favor, but Spencer realizes if she can keep needling Sue with comments, she might not need to ask questions at all. It’s worth a shot. “She didn’t seem all that bad.”

Sue leans down and puts her hands on the arms of the chair, her face uncomfortably close. “Spencer. If Hell itself opened in the middle of your birthday party and spit out a demonic, deformed, under-dwelling cave beast, and that beast ass-fucked a deep sea blobfish who has never once known the light of day, and their spawn were able to mate incestuously with itself, and that offspring consumed its own vomit, defecated on your head, and then laughed at you – _Then,_ you might know what it’s like to work a single day with Dr. Dolores Umbridge.”

Spencer closes her eyes against the imagery that will now forever haunt her dreams, and tongues at the taste of blood in her mouth. “Then, I guess you’ll be glad to hear she’s dead.”

But there’s no celebration. In fact, Sue barely reacts at all. She’s still inches away, squinting and trying to read Spencer’s poker face. They might be in a blinking contest now? It’s unclear. But Spencer’s not bluffing this time and she’s got nothing to hide.

“You said she sent you and your friends down to clean,” Sue says suspiciously.

Spencer doesn’t waver. “I only brought her up to see if you knew she was dead or not.”

Sue punches Spencer again, this time a little higher by her temple.

“OW! I didn’t ask you anything!”

“Don’t toy with my emotions! And don’t embarrass me in front of the President! You already wrung out your maxi pads in my hallway!” She points back out the lab door, and Spencer cringes at the thought. “I assume that was after you destroyed my _very expensive_ Cylon regeneration chamber.” Another punch across the jaw. “If you’d been stupid enough to leave the door open and the President had seen there were Cylons on board, I’d be halfway to Jupiter right now. But she doesn’t get it, none of you do. You have no idea how hard it is to find and retain good help in today’s economy. All those jaded millennials with their pointless liberal arts degrees.” Sue scoffs, disgusted. “And now I’m going to have to sit through another soul-sucking round of interviews to replace the machines that _you_ so rudely destroyed.” She pauses, considering the other side of the matter. “I never did really like them anyway. What was her name? Booger? Maybe you did me a favor. Clearly, I can do better in my hiring practices. After all, you and your little friends managed to get out somehow.”

Spencer says nothing.

“This is the part where you tell me how you did it. I hardly think you managed to sweet talk your way out with a little T&A show. Maybe you promised them some of Mommy’s money.”

Still nothing.

“Oh come on, give me something!” Sue cries and kicks Spencer hard in the left shin. She sighs and crosses her arms, glaring down. “Fine. Then tell me more about what’s going on with Umbridge. If I weren’t having so much fun beating you to death, I’d run up right now to laugh in her cold, dead face.”

“Well, that’ll be hard to do, considering she doesn’t have a face anymore.”

Sue does, though, and it’s positively lit up with joy. “Seriously?! You’re not just saying that?”

“If you ask _me_ a question, shouldn’t I get to punch you?”

Sue backhands her across the cheek. “Don’t get cocky.”

Spencer moves her jaw back and forth tenderly, if only to make sure it’s still attached. Both lips are split now, and her nose will probably be next. Her whole face is humming with adrenaline and blood, stinging and swelling more with each passing minute. She turns away from Sue, facing the hallway back toward the lab, and there she sees Quinn and Lucy hiding out of sight. They look ready to come in, guns blazing, but sans actual guns. Quinn makes a gesture to ask if they should, but Spencer subtly shakes her head. If Cosima and Delphine are proving trustworthy, they should stay safely with them for as long as possible. Spencer can handle this; she doesn’t want to bring more bodies into the mix. However, knowing she’s got back-up waiting if things get ugly gives her a surge of confidence.

“Umbridge was eaten to death by the spiders I told you about six weeks ago.” Spencer means to sound every bit as smug as she does. “They ate Dr. Lewis-Burke Robbins, too.”

Sue’s face drops. “Which one?”

Spencer just glares. Her face hurts too much to be this far behind on fact gathering. There’s more she wants to know, and her body will have its limits. She refocuses on the task at hand and goes in for a winner. “Did you really not know there were flesh-eating spiders on this ship?”

“No!” Sue cries, offended. She pauses, remembering she was supposed to punch Spencer before answering, and rectifies it, right in her nose.

It cracks, painfully. _“GAHHHHHH!”_

“There’s no such thing as killer spiders in outer space. You have no proof.”

She can imagine the look on Lucy’s face right now, but she’s not about to turn to find out. “There are two half-eaten women upstairs!” Spencer says.

“Cannibals,” Sue dismisses with a hand wave and resumes pacing. “Very common around here.”

Spencer had almost forgotten that Santana was safely tucked away two doors away. God only knows what’s happened to Buffy and Faith at this point. The others could’ve put a hell of a betting pool on that.

“There’s a pile of some three dozen dead spiders in –” Spencer stops, not wanting to lead Sue to Hermione and drag her into this. “—one of the rooms. Release me, and I’ll tell you which one.”

“You think I’m falling for that? I was waterboarded before you were even born, so don’t think you can out-interrogate me, Harvard.”

“Georgetown,” Spencer corrects.

Sue backhands her again and hisses, “We both know that's not a real school.”

Spencer is running out of fucks to give. “There’s also the five-foot, mothership queen spider or whatever the hell you want to call it. Pretty sure that’s who’s been killing your inmates for the last year. Her trophy collection puts yours to shame. But don’t worry, we killed it. You’re welcome.”

“How convenient,” Sue taunts. “Is this really what you wanted to have a big powwow about? Trying to stir up trouble with your little spider story nonsense?”

“I guess I just don’t understand why a warden wouldn’t care that her prisoners are going missing.”

“No one we can’t afford to lose,” Sue shrugs. “Vacancies mean new blood, and that means new opportunities. You saw my little science project back there. I know you must be dying to ask me about it.” Sue leans down again to get uncomfortably close to Spencer’s beaten face. “Or maybe you’d rather hear about how… _intimately_ …I once knew a girl named Veronica.”

The rush of blood to her head brings with it a strong wave of nausea, but it could just be the conjured image of Sue burying her face between Spencer’s mother’s legs.

“Tick tock, Harvard,” Sue continues. “I’ve got a hot date in approximately forty-seven minutes. And as fun as this is, I need my hands for more important tasks this evening, if you know what I mean.”

“Fine, I’ll take the bait,” Spencer says, spitting some blood onto the floor. And maybe a tooth. “Tell me how you know my mother.”

“You know, I don’t think I feel like it,” Sue taunts. “Maybe if you asked me nicely.”

Spencer starts to clench her teeth in frustration, but it hurts too much. “How do you know my mother?”

Another punch.

“She went to law school with an ex-girlfriend of mine,” Sue says. “I believe she was representing your case.”

The memory of an angry brunette slamming file folders back and forth comes roaring back.

Sue continues as “Borderline” starts playing overhead. “Word on the street is this loving, doting mother was driven to extreme measures when her daughter wasn’t recovering in the local mental institution. Who can blame her, though. Poor girl was battling a laundry list of psychological problems -- Desperate for attention, obsessed with vast lunatic conspiracy theories, wrapped in a narcissistic social circle hell-bent on their own destruction. And then she finally snapped, murdering the only boy in town who’d touch her with a ten-foot pole.” Sue’s upper lip curls with disgust. “It’s no wonder Veronica wanted to get rid of you and start over.”

Spencer’s blood is boiling, but that could just be her immune system freaking out from her facial injuries. She knows the truth – that A is real, that Toby betrayed her, that the reality of her life is a living hell. She’s used to people not believing her. But those last two words are ringing in her ears.

“What do you mean, ‘Start over’?”

This time, she can feel her cheekbones breaking when Sue’s fist connects.

“A new and improved Spencer! One that hasn’t spent years breaking laws and making trouble for everyone she knows. It’s an easy swap, really. You come here, and a new Spencer gets sent to your local looney bin. A few weeks later, she emerges, sane and competent but with a ripe case of amnesia. Your parents can mold her into being whoever they want.”

Spencer’s reality crashes in around her.

_The Uterius…Where prisoners aren’t rehabilitated, they’re reborn...._

Seeing the look on Spencer’s face, Sue handwaves it away. “Please, you’re hardly the first child who wasn’t wanted by her parents. It’s what keeps us in business! Kat’s parents wanted someone who wasn’t a drug-addicted fuck-up. Graham’s parents didn’t want a raging homosexual for a daughter, and far be it from me to tell them that ship will probably sail again.”

It won’t, but Spencer’s not about to interrupt.

“She was banging every girl age eighteen to thirty-five across three states,” Sue continues. “But hey, it’s their money. Everyone’s so afraid of a gay scandal these days. Whatever town Regina Mills was mayor of used taxpayer funds to purchase a replacement they could pass off as convincingly straight. As a Republican, I vehemently oppose such willy-nilly government spending. Unless, of course, it’s coming to me. Lord knows we need it. Women’s prisons are severely underfunded. I, for one, blame the patriarchy. And Michael Dukakis.”

“This isn’t even a real prison, is it,” Spencer says. “It’s just a holding pen for your fucked-up science project. You’ve been cloning every single one of us!”

Sue palms her hard across the right cheek and says, “Of course it’s a real prison,” insulted. “You’ve been living in a Level 3 incarceration center. Turns out it’s a great cover for an illegal cloning operation, what with the built-in medical staff and supplies coming and going all the time. Everyone expects a prison to be a shithouse, so DYAD gets to keep all the money. But that doesn’t make it any less of an actual jail. Perhaps you’ve been a little too comfortable in your various living arrangements. I’m surprised your friend Ripley here didn’t tell you just how cozy I can make it for you.”

Spencer doesn’t take the bait. The thought of living in Solitary hardly scares her at the moment. It almost sounds nice.

“Can you imagine if we made a hundred copies of _her_? Bursting out alien spawn all over the place?” Sue looks blown away by her own question. “Or what about everyone’s favorite cannibal, Lunchbag Rodriguez? The woman literally refers to herself as a walking sack of edibles because that’s how she sees people. Nobody’s going to pay money for that. So no, we don’t just go making copies of everyone like a goddamn Xerox factory. Except for you and Lucy, the rest of our primes are non-violent offenders.”

Reflecting on the five names Sue’s singled out – Kat, Graham, Regina, Lucy, and herself – Spencer realizes what else they have in common: They’re the blue files in Sue’s office. This must be the connection. They’ve each been swapped out with a clone back on Earth.

But it _can’t_ be real. It’s just not possible. Even though she’s seen it with her own eyes, it’s too horrible accept. Her family would know. Right? Her friends would know. They know her better than anyone. They’d be able to tell it wasn’t the real Spencer…wouldn’t they? Even if they picked up on something, they’d never jump to the clone conclusion. It’s straight up science fiction. They’d never find her here. But her mother wouldn’t just leave her here in the depths of space to rot; Spencer still believes this in her gut. Though the striking resemblance between Quinn and Lucy proves the quality of the cloning work happening down the hall, Spencer has to believe she’s still special, still worth having over any random copy.

She has to believe she’s still worth saving.

“Considering the hefty price tag,” Sue continues, “Mommy reeeeeeeally wanted you gone. Sorry, kiddo. Not everyone gets to be loved.”

She doesn’t want to cry in front of Sue. That’s a sign of weakness Spencer doesn’t consent to. But this is all too much, and she can’t hold it in anymore. A few clean tears find their way through the clots of dirt and blood on her swollen face, dripping onto the floor.

“Fuck you,” she says through gritted teeth, but Sue just smiles.

“Flattering, but you’re not my type. I like powerful women who go on to accomplish something with their lives. But you know, now that you’re all broken and repulsive, maybe your girlfriends will want to invest in a new model. They’re probably tired of sharing, and it’s not like we’re short on inventory. You’re already our best seller in Europe and South Asia this fiscal year!” Sue says. “We had to stop producing the Lucys a few years ago once we realized their mental instability was drawing too much attention. Surely that comes as no surprise to you. But it seems that if you take a Spencer and put her in a different town, she’s a normal girl who doesn’t gravitate toward crime, conspiracy, and dementia. Who knew! I might be able to install that Jacuzzi I’ve always wanted pretty soon.”

 _No._ Spencer’s not going to break, not yet. Not now. But she’s feeling faint and starting to slip in and out of consciousness, her head pounding louder and louder with each punch, though that could just be the dance beat in the background. She’s still the original Spencer Hastings, resident of Rosewood, Pennsylvania, no matter how far away they take her or how many clones they make. She’s worth something for who she is. She’s worth something to herself, she’s worth something to Quinn, and she’ll tear down anyone who tells her otherwise. That is, if she can survive this conversation. Right now, she can barely keep her eyes open. Sneaking a look, she sees Quinn and Lucy aren’t there watching anymore. Maybe they never were.

Digging deep to an unknown reserve of strength, Spencer finds words to speak. “Sounds like I’m pretty valuable to you,” she mumbles.

“No, _Martha Slewgurt_ was pretty valuable to me.”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Spencer says. “You can just say Martha Stewart. I’m not an idiot.”

Sue narrows her eyes. “Fine. Yes, it’s Martha Stewart. That one intake paid for an entire remodel of this floor. Of course, nobody’s supposed to know the real one’s here. Real hush-hush. We don’t even have any paperwork on her. So, I guess I’m going to have to kill you, but I was going to do that anyway.”

At least Spencer will die knowing she solved the great mystery of Martha Slewgurt. So, there’s that.

“I already got everything I need from you,” Sue says. “I’ve got your blood, and I’ve got your gene sequence.” She points a waving hand toward the general area of what used to be Spencer’s face. “All of this is leftovers.”

Recalling a distant memory, Spencer remembers her first day here, when the first Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins drew a blood sample, claiming she had to run some routine tests. That’s all it took. From that moment on, the real Spencer became irrelevant.

And then, Sue hits Spencer in the gut without lifting a finger. “I don’t give a camel’s hump what happens to the carrying case. I’ve already made forty more.”

_Forty._

If she hadn’t seen them for herself, she’d accuse Sue of bluffing. They must have made them all for a reason. To sell them, maybe? But then, why didn’t she find the same form in her file as Lucy did, that **PRODUCT DISTRIBUTION SITES** page that listed where all the clones had been shipped to? Maybe they’re still being grown and aren’t ready yet. Or maybe Sue made sure to keep any paper trail of the cloning out of Umbridge’s office. That is where Spencer found the file, after all. Somehow, Sue is always a step ahead of her.

Spencer’s feeling more helpless by the minute.

_My family will come for me._

_The people who love me will come for me._

She tells it to herself enough times that she almost believes it. Head hanging down, hunched forward in her chair, Spencer screams but it just comes out as a whisper. “Someone will come for me.”

“I hope you’re not a gambling woman,” Sue replies. “Once we sent your replacement down, your mother was so satisfied with her product that she signed a Do Not Return to get twenty percent off her bill. You’re ours forever, Spank Princess to the Local Space Trash. And your family gets a daughter who can get accepted to UPenn like she’s supposed to. Everybody wins! Well, except you, I suppose. I’m sorry I can’t offer you parole, well, ever, but could I interest you in an hour in the ball pit?”

Spencer flicks her hair out of her face and asks, “So, what, the other guinea pigs don’t get this DNR form and I’m supposed to feel like shit because nobody loves me?”

This time Sue knocks a tooth loose with her swing. This game of Twenty Questions can’t go on much longer.

“Most of them don’t, but that’s probably just cold feet. If I learned anything working Black Ops in the Persian Gulf with the Navy SEALS, it’s that cowards love having a way out. Graham’s parents are just the type to come crawling back crying like babies about the ‘terrible mistake’ they made. Lucky for them, I’m happy to sell the original Graham back for twice the price. They get their dysfunctional lesbian sex-addict, now with a delightful case of prison PTSD; I get my year-end bonus. Everybody wins!”

If she had the energy or a functioning jaw, Spencer might tell Sue that her golden goose is now a dead goose with no legs. Thinking back to that horrible scene, she didn’t know there was anything particularly special about Graham or that they had this terrible thing in common. If she had, maybe Spencer could’ve stopped what happened to her, but maybe not. Maybe she would’ve worked to keep her safe to use as leverage against Sue, but maybe not. Maybe Spencer doesn’t actually have control over anything anymore. She’s not even living her own life. A lab-grown imposter is pretending to be Spencer Hastings – living in her house, wearing her clothes, spending time with her family and friends – and nobody is any the wiser. But Spencer can’t even hold her head up right now, much less do anything about it.

“You’re not looking so good there, Spence.” Sue sounds rather proud of her handiwork. “Ask me nicely and I’ll put you out of your misery now. I’ll bet you Beyoncé hasn’t made dinner plans yet.”

Her facial muscles aren’t really working, but Spencer furrows her brow as much as she can. She can’t have heard that correctly. Maybe she’s losing her mind after all.

“She’s a beautiful creature,” Sue waxes poetically. “Fierce, powerful. Truly one of a kind. And I’ll tell you what, she just can’t get enough of the sweet and savory taste of human flesh.” Sue leans over and whispers in Spencer’s ear, “She finds you absolutely _de-licious.”_

_Oh god. The giant spider. Sue named her Beyoncé._

Spencer’s blood runs cold as she remembers one of Beth’s messages in Jenny’s journal.

**_QUEEN B_ **

“I told you,” Spencer says. “She’s already dead.”

“Wow, you just think everybody’s dead today, don’t you? You’re always so doom-and-gloom all the time. Lighten up a little! I’ll have you know that sharks can live up to a hundred years, which is a lot longer than you will.”

 _Wait, what? The shark?_ That’s _Beyoncé?_

“Especially with a steady food supply,” Sue continues. “I know it’s a surprise to hear there’s a shark out there in the first place. She just zooms around us in circles, over and over, but sometimes she does this little backflip. Cutest darn thing you ever saw,” Sue laughs.

“I’ll bet,” Spencer says dryly.

Sue squats down in front of Spencer and rests her elbows on her knees, propping her chin up on her hands. The pose looks friendly enough. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lighting, but Sue’s eyes are practically sparkling. She might be about to unhinge her jaw and swallow Spencer whole.

“Ask me why we don’t tell the inmates about her.” Sue’s smiling and casual, like she’s excited to tell her buddy a secret she shouldn’t.

Spencer lets her eyes fall closed as her chin drops, woozy with exhaustion, and she starts mumbling jibberish in a whisper.

“What’s that?” Sue asks, leaning in closer and closer, until Spencer can sense her proximity.

Drawing all her strength, Spencer swings her head up as hard as she can, slamming into Sue. She doesn’t know just what she hit, but it’s enough to draw a scream and a new series of punches from the furious warden.

“Well, THANK YOU FOR PROVING MY POINT,” Sue yells, fist pounding into Spencer’s cheek again and again. “Women and their _emotions_.” Another punch. “Freaking out like a bunch of _babies_.” Again and again. “All the crying and screaming and wanting to live.” Sue gives one last right-cross and then shakes her fingers out, holding the taser in her free hand. “Imagine if everybody knew! We’d have a goddamn riot on our hands.”

 _You should’ve seen us earlier,_ she thinks.

But this is all for show; Spencer knows it. Sue’s just trying to distract her from the real point of the matter. Luckily, her jaw seems to be mobile enough to still form words. Barely.

“You’re feeding…the inmates…to a shark,” Spencer says, careful to make it a statement. “You’re disgusting.”

“Hey now, missy!” Sue points at her again, looking genuinely offended. “I go out of my way to keep you and the rest of the Estrogen Armada locked away in your cells from the moment she arrives to the moment she leaves _for your own safety_. Did you know sharks can smell blood up to a _million_ miles away? Imagine what a cornucopia of smells seventy synced-up women must be to a beast like that. Heaven help us if you’re all in the same room together. The overpowering stench would send poor Beyoncé into a hunger-induced rage. One chomp on the ovary could get us spinning like that ride at the state fair that makes everybody throw up.” Sue whirls her finger in a circle and searches for the name but can’t pinpoint it. “We’d be way off our axis, barreling through the galaxy with no end in sight. Our stabilizers can’t handle that!” Sue paces again, as if talking to no one in particular. “People slamming everywhere, beds flying, absolute mayhem. Massive inmate casualties. Investigations. _Tons_ of paperwork.” Sue’s eyes go wide at that last, very sobering thought.

“Right,” Spencer says bitterly. “Better if we only die one at a time. Thanks for your concern.” She spits some blood onto the ground and winces as her tender wrists scrape against the cuffs. There isn’t much left she can move without immediately regretting it.

“Well, unlike you, Spencer, I’m not rude to those who are trying to protect me. Do you know how badass it looks to have a giant, killer shark circling your spaceship? I forgot, you don’t, so I’ll tell you. It’s AWESOME,” she laughs with hands up. _“Nobody_ fucks with us!” It’s the happiest she’s sounded yet today. “Not only is it reliable security, it’s free labor!” She laughs again. “And all I have to do to keep her coming back is send out a little thank-you treat before she goes.” Sue leans over close to Spencer’s face with a half-smile. “I’m a very generous person that way.” She gives a wink and then stands up straight again.

“Yeah.” Spencer blinks against the swelling that’s rising around her eyes and sniffs hard. She tastes the blood in the back of her throat and winces, then coughs it back up. “You’re the best.”

Sue slaps her hard across the cheek with an open palm again, and Spencer heaves in pain and rage, “I’m not asking any more questions!”

“AND IT’S BORING!” Sue screams back. “Just die already! I’ve got evening plans!” Sue kicks the legs of the chair in frustration, catching a fair chunk of Spencer’s calf with her Reebok. “If I send you out to Beyoncé like this, she’ll expect more whole, never-frozen, free range Spencers from now on, and I can’t have a snoody diva on my hands. I’d prefer to keep sending out chunks of the factory-farm, frozen-first Spencers. Really helps the bottom line.”

Spencer throws up a little in her mouth at the description, turning and coughing out onto her shoulder. She never ever wants to her those phrases again. Ever. And given all the pain she’s in right now, Spencer’s half inclined to let Sue vent her whole without a fight. “I thought you only sold the clones to people.” It seems strange that Sue would be playing shark trainer with a bucket of chum.

“Well, I can’t sell the messed-up ones now, can I?” Sue says. “Nobody wants to buy a girl with three arms or no lungs or six eyes.”

Suddenly, memories drifts back from Spencer’s very first days here -- Buffy calling her “shark meat.” Sue herself calling Spencer “chum” that Boomer needed to move out of the hallway. Those weren’t empty words or even insults.

The whole staff knew what was happening. Everyone was in on it.

They don’t even think of her as a person. She’s just…fish food.

Spencer vomits a little more imagining a barrel of her parts, wheeled into the docking bay by one of the guards. It’s probably routine by now. Mutated, deformed, sickly versions of Spencer vented into the waiting open mouth of a giant space shark.

“But cloning’s a sloppy business, Pastings,” Sue continues. “They’re not all gonna be pretty. Fortunately, we got our waste levels down to just thirty-four percent last quarter.” She points a finger again and says, “That’s a record.”

Spencer’s having trouble breathing now that her nose is full of stomach acid. Her mouth falls open to let air in as a trail of saliva and blood runs out. “Great.”

Sue leans down once more to find a direct eyeline with Spencer. “Have you ever seen a pile of bodies? I mean, a real mountain of corpses. Pain in the ass to move it, but it’s quite a sight to behold. And imagine if we didn’t have the facilities to store them for processing! Ha!” Sue gives a little laugh. “We’d be like a cannon popping ‘em out left and right. Of course, I can’t have dead girls flying out of my ship every other day, now can I? People would talk.”

_Only on Christmas, I guess._

Spencer’s not sure if she said that out loud, but probably not, since she didn’t get clocked again. The pounding in her head is unbearable, but Spencer pushes through it. She’s going to say everything she needs to say to Sue, even if it kills her. “Tell that to Jenny Schecter.”

Sue turns on a dime and points a finger right in Spencer’s face, eyes blazing mad. “JENNY SCHECTER WAS A SATAN-WORSHIPPING TWATMOUSE. The woman just would _not stop talking_ ,” Sue groans, oblivious to the irony of the moment. “If I had to hear one more insidious Jenny Sphincter rant about her” — Sue uses air quotes— “ _‘lifelong vendetta’_ against Lucy Fabray, I was going to cut off my ears and shove them down her throat. So she killed your father while you were off at a summer writing camp, big deal! Get over it! My father was swallowed whole by an anaconda in Brazil, but you don’t see me writing stupid poems about eviscerating snakes with ‘the talons of my depression’! Lucy killed a lot of people’s fathers, including her own! YOU’RE NOT SPECIAL. MOVE ON.” Sue calms herself a bit, maybe realizing she’s been ranting at a ghost. She turns back to Spencer and assures her, “It wasn’t just me – she made everyone crazy. Becky practically shat herself with excitement when I said she could push the button.”

Spencer’s read all the vicious rants but had no idea what actual motive was behind it. This sounds like a legit reason to hate someone. “Jenny’s dad was one of the DYAD scientists Lucy murdered?” she asks hoarsely.

Sue chooses to uppercut Spencer’s chin this time, causing her to bite most of the way through her tongue, and she cries out again.

“Oh, I’ve heard alllllllll about how they grew up together as the only kids on the ship but Lucy got all the attention because she was the youngest and the ‘pretty one’ and the favorite and blah, blah, blah, whine, whine, whine.” Sue mimics her in a high voice, moving her fingers like a mouth, “ _‘Lucy’s room was right next to mine and she copied everything I did and everyone thought it was so adorable and original and asked why I couldn’t be more like her, but really *I* was the special one_ ’, blah, blah, blah, SHUT UP! EVERYONE HATES YOU.”

 _The room_ , Spencer realizes. The one Quinn was locked in. That must have been Jenny’s room.

Sue’s still seething, and Spencer wonders if Lucy’s hearing all this from down the hall, but she’s not about to risk giving up their position by looking. Calming herself down, Sue ends her rant by saying, “Since she happened to be absent during Lucy’s little slicing spree – which, if you ask me, is ample proof that there is no God – she was transferred upstairs with Lucy simply because she had nowhere else to go. I tried to get her paroled countless times, just to get her out of my life, but nobody would represent her, not even that fancy-pants Jeri Hogwarts or whatever her name is. I’m sure you’ve heard of her. Always has this little blonde thing with her in court on a leash?” Sue looks at Spencer. “Wears a leather collar? No?” Sue waves a dismissing hand and exhales. “You know, some days I wish we’d cloned Jenny Schecter just so I could have the sweet satisfaction of killing her over and over and over again. Once just didn’t feel like enough. It was better than crack.”

“I’m guessing she wasn’t half as pompous as you,” Spencer says, swollen bleeding tongue and all. “Was she even dangerous? Even a warden can’t just kill someone because you don’t like them.”

“Why not?” Sue asks. “You did!”

_Touché._

“That was _one_ person.” Spencer cries. She can feel trails of tears and blood running down the curve of her jawline and onto her neck. “You’re a goddamn serial killer!”

“I prefer ‘resourceful opportunist.’ ”

Sue Sylvester, the woman in charge of protecting them, is every bit as much a felon as the prisoners she oversees – and murders. Airlocking a prisoner every Christmas just for sport. Offing people who annoy her at whim. Probably taking government bribes of some kind; Spencer wouldn’t be surprised. Not to mention she’s feeding actual human flesh to a space shark every month. No wonder Umbridge was trying to shut her down.

“And speaking of opportunity, let’s not forget my favorite detail,” Sue says with a wicked gleam in her eye. “I could only get away with killing a prisoner off my holiday schedule if I knew I could quickly replace her with someone else. I waited and I waited for that perfect chance for years. I suffered through her tedious office visits. I green-lighted her stupid class. And then, _finally_ , imagine my delight when I receive an intake preview for a long-haired brunette with questionable social ties and multiple counts of excessive bitchery. Just like Jenny Schecter. A perfect swap.” Sue takes a fistful of Spencer’s hair to hold her head still as she whispers in her ear, _“That’s right, lamb chop. She’s dead because of_ you _.”_

Behind her eyelids, Spencer sees frayed lines of ruptured veins spelling out the familiar web messages once more. She didn’t push the button, but she’s just as responsible for killing Jenny Schecter. It’s all her fault.

The final notes of Madonna’s “Frozen” fade away over the intercom, and the room falls eerily silent as Power Hour comes to a close.

“Well, that’s my cue,” Sue says with a sudden cheerfulness as she lets go of Spencer’s hair and checks her watch. “It’s been a real hootenanny. You won’t mind staying put and bleeding out while I go get ready for some very important business.” She holds the taser out and fires, but it malfunctions and just clicks a few times. Sue shakes it and examines the casing, but it’s cracked from all the blunt force. “Guess we’ll have to do this the slow way.” She kicks Spencer right in the chest, hard, knocking the chair over with a loud bang.

Spencer’s head slams against the floor as she coughs faintly, trying to get air back in her lungs, but the concussion is too strong, and her body is quickly forgetting how to function.

Sue stuffs the broken taser back in her bra and notices some blood spatter on the arms of her blue trainer jacket. “Dagnabbit. Do you know how much dry-cleaning costs out here?” Walking over to the empty hallway she shouts, “BECKY! Get this mess cleaned up pronto. I can’t have dead lesbians lying around my lobby like cheap throw rugs.”

There’s a pause, then the voice comes from down the hall. _“Coming, boss!”_

Spencer’s fighting against the brink of unconsciousness. Her vision is blurry, and maybe Beyoncé did hit the ship after all, because the room is spinning. Out of view, she hears the lab entrance door open and close, then the room falls silent.

Spencer shouts for Ripley and Vasquez, both out of sight from this new angle, but the words don’t even escape her throat. She’s starting to feel the full weight of her injuries as the blood rushes to her head, and, for all she knows, out onto the floor. Maybe it’d be better if she let herself pass out so her mind can shut down and begin to recover. But then, that’s exactly what Sue wants: for Spencer to give up and die, right here. But she’s not going to let that happen. She stayed strong through the interrogation, and she’s still alive. If she drifts away now, she can’t help the others, and they’re counting on her to see this through.

_But a nap, just a short one, sounds really, really good right now…_

The taste of blood in her mouth fades into the background as the throbbing in her head takes over. Spencer’s eyes fall closed as her bruised chin sinks to her chest, and the spinning world begins to melt away. Her mind fills with whispers, like echoes of voices calling to her miles away, then she begins to rise from the ground and float away.

The voices – now with cursing – come into sharper focus as her floating takes a bump and a stumble. Spencer opens her swollen eyes slightly, letting in the harsh bright light of the room, and sees that she _is_ , in fact, floating off the ground.

_“Be careful! Watch her head.”_

_“I’m trying!”_

She recognizes Quinn and Lucy’s voices and maybe the girlfriend scientists, but she’s not sure. They seem to be carrying her, chair and all, down the hall. But they’re just leaving Ripley and Vasquez on the ground, unconscious or half-dead.

 _“Get…them,”_  she says, but only in her head.

The chariot pauses as they reach a closed door, and then they’re moving inside a cold room. Spencer chair is set down on the floor slowly but not gently enough. Everything hurts.

 _“We don’t have much time,”_  someone says. It’s bossy. Lucy.

_“Here, hold this against the back of her head to slow the bleeding.”_

_“Can’t you stitch this up or something?”_

_“Not with you in the way! Hurry up.”_

So many voices, but Spencer can’t make sense of what’s happening or if they’re even real. Through the fog of her altered state, Spencer hears what she thinks is the clinking of metal tools, the opening and closing of drawers, the shuffling of feet around her.

 _“I still can’t believe we’re doing this to an innocent girl,”_  says a voice. Cosima. _“So much for not hurting the science.”_

 _“It’s not like we have much of a choice,”_  Delphine replies.

_“I know, I know. Just, hand me that paperclip.”_

Something’s happening with Spencer’s hands. She fights to open her eyes, letting the first bright beams through to constrict her pupils. There’s someone in front of her. Sitting in a chair. Dark hair, black uniform, sitting very still. As she blinks through the tears and blood, Spencer’s vision comes into focus and sees someone, she sees...

…herself.

She jerks against the restraints, reacting on instinct and fear, but she can’t move far. Looking at the crumpled, beaten girl – _Spencer_ – in front of her, like looking into a mirror, she wonders if the trauma to her brain was so extensive that it’s creating an out-of-body experience. Maybe she’s dead and is back to watch how the rest plays out for her friends.

“Hold still,” Cosima says. Spencer turns and sees out of the corner of her eyes that the scientist is behind her, kneeling, trying to pick the lock. She sees that the other Spencer isn’t restrained, but otherwise, they seem to be identical. Same clothing, same chair. But the other girl, fast asleep, has clearly been viciously attacked. Her lip is swollen and bloody, her nose is broken and trailing red down her face, and both her eyes are bruised black. Spencer has to assume that her own face looks just as bad. It’s not a comforting thought.

After a minute of fidgeting, Cosima asks, sheepishly, “Okay, does anyone know how to do this? I’m not the criminal in the family.”

“Move,” Quinn says and takes over. Thirty seconds later, there’s a click and her hands fall free. Soon after, her feet do as well. Cosima rushes to put the handcuffs on the other Spencer, adjusting them so they’re in the same position. While she takes care of that, Lucy rubs some ashes on the girl’s face and skin, attempting to match the tone. She looks back and forth between the two Spencers, making sure it’s close enough.

“What…” Spencer manages to ask in her loudest voice, which is barely audible.

A new face bends down in front of her, and Spencer recognizes the first Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins. “Hang in there, Spencer. We’re going to take care of you.” She’s probably imagining it.

“We need to get her out there,” Quinn says. Double-checking their handiwork, Lucy, Quinn, and the two surviving Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins count to three and lift the other Spencer’s chair to take her away. Once they’re out of sight, Cosima and Delphine carefully lift Spencer out of her chair and put her onto a medical table. Without warning, Delphine’s wiping an alcohol pad on Spencer’s inner elbow and starting an IV, while Cosima opens a refrigerated cabinet and retrieves several labeled bags of pink fluid with yellow clips.

“Here goes nothing,” Cosima says.

It’s the last thing Spencer hears, and then she’s gone.


	57. Just Another Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer’s body feels warm and tingly all over, like a fuzzy blanket is pulled snugly over every inch of her skin. She’s moving in slow motion, or maybe not moving at all, but everything just seems delayed, or at least she thinks. Colors splash through the blackness as memories of the day flash in and out. The dull, cracking sound of Sue’s fist against her face over and over rings distantly, but she’s so numb, she can’t even feel it anymore.

_“I think she’s waking up.”_

_“Spencer? Hey, can you hear me?”_

Her hearing comes into focus before she’s able to open her eyes, and she can feel the cold air against her skin. The light is blinding, but there’s a face leaning over her, blocking it, which helps. In fact, there are four faces. It feels very reminiscent of The Wizard of Oz, the way they’re all watching over her, waiting for her to wake up.

“Hey,” Quinn says with a warm smile.

“She looks better,” Lucy says to Cosima.

“I know, cool, right? It was just a theory, but I think it’s working.”

Delphine begins to switch out the IV bag for a new one. “We can’t keep her here forever. What are you going to do?”

The question is for Quinn and Lucy, but Spencer’s wondering the same thing. As her senses begin to come back, she tries gently testing her various muscles, moving her fingers, her face. There’s no instant reaction of pain, and the taste of blood in her mouth is gone. It could just be whatever meds they’ve doped her with. She was definitely asleep for however long before now. It could’ve been hours; she’s feeling surprisingly refreshed, she realizes.

“Sue,” Spencer manages to say. Her voice is tired and scratchy, and her mouth is dry. “Where is she?”

“It’s okay,” Quinn says, resting her hand on Spencer’s arm. “We’ve bought some time.” But the tone of her voice implies she’s not particularly thrilled with how they did it.

“If by ‘we’ you mean ‘me,’ ” Lucy corrects, smugly. Her hair is hanging limply and still wet, and her condescending expression is clearer now on her freshly-showered face. Spencer almost forgot what Lucy looked like under the layers of blood. She’s changed into what might be a set of white scrubs. It’s a weird color on her. Quinn’s cleaned up as well, though still wearing her jumpsuit. A lot’s happened while she’s been out.

“How?” she asks.

“We used a decoy,” says Cosima as she puts something away in a cabinet. “We swapped you out with one of the clones so Sue won’t know you’re gone. That one’s a little younger than you, but we don’t think Sue will notice.” She crosses the room and gathers some tools, taking them to the sink. “We had to give you a chance to heal.” Cosima stops and looks her right in the eye. “She was going to kill you, Spencer.”

And suddenly, Spencer remembers the last thing she saw before she passed out – the mirror version of herself, beaten and bloody, cuffed to that chair. Seeing herself like that, so damaged, was gruesome. She won’t be able to shake that image for the rest of her life. “So, you killed that other girl instead.” It’s not a question.

“She’s not dead,” Quinn says. “We doped her up to knock her out. Then we…made her match what was happening to you.” She can’t even look at Spencer as she says the words. “She won’t wake up until all this is over, and she’ll heal.”

But Spencer can’t stop thinking about what must have been happening behind closed doors while she was getting pummeled by Sue. Another Spencer, sedated and unconscious, getting beaten viciously…

One glance at Lucy’s hands reveals fingers swollen and red with medical tape wrapped around them. Quinn’s seem undamaged.

Spencer thinks back to when Quinn and Lucy were hiding and watching. She’d thought they were wanting to intervene and rescue her. But now it’s clear they were just doing recon on how badly to injure an innocent, sleeping girl.

Spencer retches and vomits a small pile of yellow onto the floor. Delphine quickly grabs a towel and starts to clean it up, wiping Spencer’s face first. “The medication must be making her nauseated.”

“Or maybe just the thought of you doing to me what Sue did,” Spencer says, glaring at Lucy as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “Why am I even surprised.”

“It wasn’t you,” Lucy says. “Not really.”

But Spencer doesn’t want to hear it.

“Do you think you can get up and walk?” Delphine asks. “We need to get you girls out of here. Sue could come back at any time.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says, but it’s surprisingly easy to get her feet on the floor and maintain her balance. Quinn’s offered her hand to brace against, and even though Spencer doesn’t seem to need it, she seizes the opportunity.

She turns to say something shitty to Lucy, because what she did is unforgiveable, but the words get lost in Spencer’s throat when her eyes catch sight of the mirror over the sink.

Her face is clean and _normal_. No blood or smoke, no black eyes or broken nose, no busted swollen lip, not even any loose teeth. It’s as if it never happened. Stepping closer to the mirror, she starts to wonder if _she_ is the clone and they transferred her consciousness to a new body somehow.

_Oh my god. I’m a Cylon._

“Pretty good, right?” Cosima asks proudly from behind her. “I didn’t know how fast it would work, or really if it would even work at all, but the results are incredible.”

Spencer turns sharply, scared to hear the answer to her question. “What did you do?”

“Reparative gene therapy,” Cosima says. “We had plenty of your DNA on hand, obviously, and we were able to replicate a reconstructive sequence from your stem cells. DYAD has a hormonal accelerant that allows us to rapidly speed up the aging process to any point we want. That’s how we’ve been able to grow so many teenage clones in the three months you’ve been here.”

Spencer flinches at the word _grow_ but keeps listening. It’s creepy and weird and awful, but she’s morbidly intrigued by the whole thing.

“We hypothesized that we could use it to speed up your recovery by growing new tissue,” Delphine says. “In twenty minutes of treatment we aged you approximately four months, and your broken bones mended. It’s fascinating technology.”

It sounds like pure science fiction, but the results seem to speak for themselves. Her face does feel much better, and there’s no visible sign of any damage ever happening. Now that four months of her life are just gone for good, she doesn’t really have time to argue with the scientists’ explanation.

The only thing she can think of to say is, “Thanks.” But it’s awkward, because there’s still a beaten girl cuffed to a chair just down the hall, waiting for Sue to come finish her off, if she hasn’t already. A lot can happen in fifteen minutes. Pushing that image aside, she says, “Ripley. Vasquez.”

“They’re okay,” Cosima says. “They’re in the next room with the doctors.”

“What about Becky?” Spencer asks, looking around, scared. “I heard her voice.”

Everyone looks at Quinn. “That was me,” she shrugs.

_Oh god. Serial Killer Quinn strikes again._

“You killed her?!” Spencer balks.

“I imitated her, so Sue wouldn’t know she’s gone.”

Delphine says, “We locked Becky in a room down the hall. She might still be unconscious. We don’t know.”

Spencer takes in the update and nods along. So far, so good. Now, the million-dollar question. “And where’s Sue?”

“Getting inspected,” Cosima says. She looks at the clock. “In about ten minutes. She’s probably getting ready. _Huge_ lady-boner for this woman.”

“That’s why she took me downstairs,” Quinn says, curious.

“For her lady-boner?” Spencer asks.

_“For the inspection.”_

Spencer’s still confused, “Wasn’t that what the President was here for?”

Lucy shakes her head. “That was for sex.”

_Right._

“Some bigwig is coming to investigate all the disappearing girls,” Cosima says. “It’s been on the calendar for weeks. ‘CDC,’ with hearts drawn around it.”

“Wait, the CDC?” Spencer’s quite alarmed now. It never occurred to her that a disease might be involved. “You think this is a virus? Some kind of flesh-eating bacteria?”

“Maybe! That would be --” Cosima says with wide, excited eyes, then notices everyone’s reaction. “Terrible. That would be terrible. Obviously.” She then adds, “The Cosmic Department of Corrections. They oversee all the prisons. Apparently, the inspector is a total babe.” Delphine shoots her a glare. “I’m not saying I think so! I don’t even know the woman.”

Quinn looks at Spencer. “Think Sue’s seen upstairs yet?”

“What’s upstairs?” Cosima asks.

“A whole lot of dead bodies,” Spencer says. “Should keep them busy for a while.”

“Until we can do what?” Quinn says.

But no one seems to have an answer to that.

Spencer runs her hand through her hair. “Well, when the inspector sees all the bodies and the prisoners out of their cells, she’ll have to fire Sue, right? I mean, who wouldn’t? Isn’t that what we want? We want her gone.”

Lucy shrugs. “She’s always been nice to me.”

“Well, you saw what she did to me.” Spencer looks to the others. “You said you’d help us kill her.”

“Yes, we did,” Delphine says, “Because you came barging in here like a lunatic, and it was her or us. Now that we’ve saved your life, maybe you’ll be willing to listen and take our point of view into consideration.” Taking a deep breath, Delphine calms herself before continuing. “Look, we don’t like Sue any more than you do. She’s crass and irresponsible. But there are a lot of terrible people working for DYAD. If Sue’s replaced, they could send someone much, much worse.”

It’s hard for Spencer to imagine what that could possibly look like. The guy from Saw, maybe. Or Donald Trump.

“At least with Sue,” Delphine continues, “we know what we’re facing. She trusts us and leaves us alone. We can handle her. I’m not sure exposing her to the authorities is the right move for us.”

Spencer’s eyes go wide. _The spiders._

With the DYAD logos printed on their bodies.

Of course Delphine and Cosima don’t want the truth exposed, because it leads back to them.

Maybe this truce ends here and now. Spencer, Quinn, and Lucy have the two scientists outnumbered, but Becky or the two doctors could show up at any time. And who knows if they’re taking care of Ripley and Vasquez or if they _took care of_  Ripley and Vasquez. Too many unknowns. Spencer chooses to tread carefully. “What all do you know about the disappearing girls?” she asks as innocently as she can.

“Not a lot, but it’s terrible,” Cosima says. It sounds sincere, but Spencer’s not convinced. “I figured it was prisoner-on-prisoner violence or something. We don’t exactly get out much,” she says with a chuckle, adjusting her backup pair of glasses. “It sounds like it’s pretty bad up there sometimes.”

“I like it,” Lucy says, and Quinn rolls her eyes.

“So, you really don’t know anything about spiders kidnapping girls during the night and eating them,” Spencer asks accusingly. “Spiders with, say, a big old DYAD logo printed on their backs? Ringing any bells?”

“Spiders?” Cosima replies. “No. I haven’t seen anything but humans inside the ship since I came here two years ago.”

“What makes you think there are spiders on the ship?” asks Delphine, crossing her arms. She both looks and sounds very suspicious, but that could just be her thick French accent.

“We saw them,” Quinn says. “We killed them. All of them.”

“But…that’s impossible,” Delphine says, furrowing her brow.

“I don’t know,” Cosima says, “Sharks evolved to be space-hardy, so maybe spiders did, too.” She sounds genuinely excited by the idea.

“No, it’s impossible that you killed them all,” Delphine says. All eyes immediately snap to her, including Cosima’s. “Helena’s too big. She’s too strong. I don’t believe that she’s dead,” she says defiantly.

Spencer’s about to open a can of whoop-ass on this woman, but Cosima turns, disgusted, and says, “There’s a giant _spider_ named after _my sister?!”_

“Yes!” Dephine counters, losing her cool. “She’s terrifying and unpredictable and wears a towel on her head like a stupid, blonde wig.” Delphine’s tone is quite condescending. “Trust me, it’s a perfect name.”

“Oh, screw you,” Cosima says.

“WHY ARE THERE SPIDERS ON THIS SHIP,” Spencer yells, stepping close to Delphine.

The scientist stands her ground. “Because I made them,” she says, sounding quite proud of herself.

The words hang in the room for a moment, and Cosima’s face drops. She clearly had no idea. “You did science without me?”

“It started long before you got here,” Delphine says to her girlfriend. “My assignment when I arrived was to continue the cloning work of the previous DYAD scientists.” She turns to Lucy and says rather nastily, “Maybe you remember them?”

“They deserved it,” Lucy says. “Maybe you do, too.”

“Hey!” Spencer intervenes. “Maybe if you stopped killing everyone in a white lab coat, you’d get the answers you want. Let her talk.”

“It was a huge setback, what you did,” Delphine says to Lucy. “Cost the company millions of dollars. I still can’t believe they didn’t put you in solitary confinement for the rest of your life, you raging lunatic.”

“Hey!” Spencer now says to Delphine. “Maybe you shouldn’t antagonize the mass murderer.”

“Well, your little revenge plot didn’t slow DYAD down for long. Fortunately, Dr. Arnold Schecter kept impeccable notes in his journal. And once we got the human cloning project back on track, I was able to recreate a working arachnid prototype -- with some improvements, of course -- and get a first run in only four months. They’re even bigger and stronger than before. They can’t produce silk, but they’re very smart, very resourceful. They listen and learn and adapt. They’re beautiful creatures.”

“You sound like her,” Spencer says with a nod to Lucy. “And by the way, they can’t spell for shit.”

Quinn reacts with sudden understanding. “Schecter.” Spencer turns to see what she’s piecing together. “The room I was in. One of the dolls had a nametag with ‘Jenny’ on it. I figured there had to be more than one crazy girl named Jenny in space. Guess not.”

Thinking back on her conversation with Sue, Spencer asks Quinn, “Jenny never said anything about knowing Lucy before she came here?”

“We didn’t talk much. She just wrote all day.”

Spencer still can’t believe she may have missed a reference to their shared childhood in the diary. She read it backward and forward several times before she couldn’t take the madness anymore. Looking at Lucy, she says, “And in our many, _many_ conversations, you tell me all about how you and Quinn are test tube twins or whatever, yet you conveniently forgot to mention that you grew up with Jenny Schecter.”

“You never knew her, and you never asked,” Lucy says, mirroring some of Spencer’s anger. “I said we had been friends for a long time.”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t killed her father,” says Spencer, “she wouldn’t have turned into a raging psycho who wanted you dead.”

“She always hated me,” Lucy counters. “Even when we were kids. I just wanted her to like me. I told her her father was doing terrible things, but she wouldn’t listen. Not even to Beth.”

“Yes, let’s get back to discussing spiders,” Spencer says, refocusing on Delphine.

But Cosima’s never taken her eyes off her girlfriend. “You never told me about any of this,” she says, clearly quite hurt.

“Your expertise is in human genetics. That’s your assignment. You’re continuing the work that made other things possible.” Delphine looks at Quinn for a moment, then back to Cosima. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. It’s military-level clearance. It wasn’t my decision.”

 _“Military?”_   Spencer and Cosima ask simultaneously. But then Spencer answers her own question with wide eyes. “They’re mass-producing weapons of destruction.”

“Probably,” Delphine says. “I don’t get to ask questions. But whatever it is, it’s illegal on Earth, so I carry out the work up here.”

Cosima turns and starts pacing the room. “I can’t believe you’ve been lying to me all this time! And since when are you in the _US military?_  How the hell does _that_ even work?”

Spencer jumps in as well. “You didn’t think maybe growing tiny killing machines was a REALLY BAD IDEA?” She’s exasperated. All these women are dead because some old white men wanted a new toy. Did they never see Arachnophobia?

“It’s a contract job. It’s not my decision to make,” Delphine replies.

“No, just your checks to cash. I don’t know how you sleep at night,” Spencer says. “Up there, we slept with one eye open, because your little army kept coming in and drugging us and taking us to die.”

“Okay, first of all, it’s not _‘My little army’_ , okay?” Delphine says. “All the spiders are locked up safely in their tanks. They’ve never gotten loose or hurt anyone. We don’t test them here.”

“Are you kidding me!” Spencer cries. “They came after me, and they came after Quinn, and there’s a _pile of half-eaten dead girls_ in your trash room to prove it. Plus the giant Helen one.”

“Helena,” Delphine corrects quietly.

“How on earth did it get that big?” Spencer asks, more than a little scared to hear the answer.

“It took time to get the hormonal balance right. There were some pituitary issues.”

Spencer glares. “Yeah, no kidding! And yet you didn’t kill it.”

“She was thriving!” Delphine says. “I wasn’t about to kill an innocent animal that showed no signs of violent behavior.”

“Tell that to the pile of dead girls. They’re right around the corner,” Spencer adds, looking at Cosima.

The scientist looks from Spencer to Delphine and pauses. “You’re sure that’s what you saw?”

“Yes,” Spencer says, and Quinn nods.

Delphine seems to have nothing to say to that.

“Show me,” Cosima says. “The bodies, I mean.”

Spencer’s glad to at least have her on their side. “I will,” she says, then looks at Delphine. “After you show us these tanks.”

Delphine narrows her eyes. “You know, despite what you seem to believe, you have no authority here _.”_

“You’re going to take us to the spiders. _Now_.”

Quinn looks up at the clock. “Spencer.” It’s inspection time.

“Shit.” She puts her hands in her hair and paces a few steps to gather her thoughts. It’s time to make a decision. She can only go after one monster at a time. Looking back at Delphine, she says, “You swear on your life – on her life,” she points at Cosima, “that any more spiders are locked up safely, and they’re going to stay that way.”

“Yes.” When Spencer looks to Lucy and Quinn to see what they think, Delphine adds, _“We’re_ the people in this room who don’t want everyone to die, remember?”

All Spencer has left is hope and trust. “Fine.” Taking a step to the door, she says, “Come on,” and motions for Quinn and Lucy to follow.

“What can we do to help?” Cosima calls after them.

Spencer pauses and thinks a few steps ahead. “Nothing. Stay here.” She looks to Delphine. “You’re coming with us.”

“No. I’m not.”

“I just need you to open the door to the lab, then you come right back in here,” Spencer says. “Try not to destroy any more lives when you get back.”

The door closes quietly behind them, and Spencer hates that she has no way of locking Cosima in. She’s not comfortable with the idea of x-factors running loose with a better lay of the land than she has. But short of knocking them out, she doesn’t know what else to do, and there’s already been enough of that today.

_Speaking of which…_

Just next door, true to their word, the two remaining doctors are tending to their patients, a very achey Ripley and equally roughed-up Vasquez.

“How are they?” Spencer says, entering without warning.

“Just came around,” says Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins. “They should stay here for another hour and recover, just so we can rule out any further injuries.”

“Fuck that,” Vasquez says, sitting up on the table and flexing her various muscles to make sure they still work.

Spencer knows that she’s the only one who got the magical treatment, but she’s not going to turn away Vasquez’s enthusiasm. It feels good to have the other half of their team back. After Donna’s terrible end, Spencer doesn’t want to lose anyone else today. With Mack and Faith dropping off, they need all the help they can get. But watching Ripley regaining consciousness reminds Spencer of the third taser victim today, who is probably awake now, herself.

“Guys. I have a really bad idea.”


	58. Split Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

A small, sleek black aircraft lands in the docking bay as one very excited Sue Sylvester watches from behind the safety glass. She can hear her heart pounding over the loud rush of air flushing back into the room once the barrier closes. Fixing her hair one last time and making sure her best green tracksuit is zipped just right, she opens the door and walks confidently onto the tarmac, smile beaming. After a year of waiting, she is finally about to be face to face with the one and only, the incredible, the luminescent, the captivating Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson.

With a hiss, the black door slides open, and a moment later, she’s there. Blonde hair flowing perfectly, black blazer buttoned over an ironed white collared shirt. She’s power and perfection from head to toe, and Sue’s already feeling weak in the knees just seeing her again. The clack of her shoes echoes in the docking bay as she makes her way over to the warden. Her serious expression reflects her complete disinterest in being here, but Sue’s too smitten to notice.

“Warden.”

“Stella,” Sue says with a big smile, holding out her hand, “it’s so great to see you again. Thank you for coming.”

“Please call me Detective Gibson,” says the woman, already bored. Her condescension is only magnified by her British accent. “As I told you last time.” She heads for the door without another word, and Sue follows like a lovesick puppy.

“I honestly don’t even know why they called you in,” Sue says. “The turnover we’ve experienced has been well within prison norms.”

“Obviously it’s not, or I wouldn’t be here.”

Nodding to Greggs to keep her post, they take the elevator in silence, other than Sue’s giddy hums of joy, and walk to the door for the main entrance. Gibson adjusts the sleeves of her shirt and waits for Sue to press the green button.

“Well, I want you to know I run a very tight ship. Everyone knows there’s nothing I care more about than the safety of these girls. This whole death and disappearance rumor couldn’t be further from the truth.” With that, she pushes the button and the double doors open from the middle.

The scene that unveils makes Sue gasp in horror and scream, “MARTINA NAVRATILOVA!”

Twenty feet in front of them, the pile of three dead Boomers – sliced up, guts spilled all over the floor. The puddle of blood nearly reaches to the door and spreads wide like a lake they’ll have to swim across just to get inside. Just beyond them, at least a dozen more dead Boomers lie strewn about the cell block with tasers scattered all around. All is still and quiet, and Sue can see the doors are open to at least the first three cells. There’s not a single inmate in sight.

The two women stand there for a minute just taking in the scene. Sue’s frozen to the spot, horrified and mortified, unsure what she’s supposed to do or say to get out of this. She almost wishes she hadn’t already killed Spencer Hastings so she could do it all over again for putting her in this position.

Gibson’s eyes dance over every corner and detail of the scene, examining and assessing. She takes several pictures on her phone, then finally breaks the silence. “I have questions.”

“I assure you, I will get to the bott—”

“My questions aren’t for you,” Gibson says, cutting her off. She’s already a few steps down the hall to the right, tiptoeing carefully around the edges of the blood lake. But before Sue can catch up to her, she stops and stares at what remains of Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins in the Infirmary. Another picture. “Just what kind of ship are you running, exactly?”

“There is a perfectly reasonable explan—”

“Stop talking.”

Gibson continues down the hall, and that’s when Sue realizes where she’s going. Spencer’s spider story seems as good as any, now that Sue’s seen the half-eaten doctor for herself. She runs to get in front of Gibson, slipping on the trail of bloody footprints that she seems to be following. Holding out her arms, Sue says, “You can’t go down there.”

“If you’ve left anyone alive on this ship, I’d like to talk to them. I can do that before or after I lock you in the nearest cell. You decide.”

“Dr. Umbridge isn’t here,” Sue lies. “She took a leave of absence. Something about wanting to see the beaches of Neptune before she turns one hundred and thirty-five, and I didn’t have the heart to tell the old cow that this is Neptune’s tourist off-season and also that there is no water. But did she listen? Of course not. She’s been gone for weeks. Probably not coming back. The woman can’t find her way around a lunchbox, much less outer space.”

“Then she won’t mind if I look around her office,” Gibson says. “She’s a psychiatrist; she must have quite a file on you.”

Sue’s world is rapidly escaping her tightly controlled grasp. Things really couldn’t be any worse. Her guards are dead, her inmates are god knows where, the doctor is stinking up her hall, and now the love of her life is looking to get answers from _Umbridge_ , of all people. She doesn’t know if she wants the bag-of-dicks to be alive or dead, but either way, Stella’s just a few steps from the door.

Pushing the door open with a loud creak, Gibson doesn’t react, just stands in the doorway looking. Sue can’t see, nor does she want to, but then temptation gets the better of her. Gibson takes another picture on her phone and walks back the way they came without comment. Sue runs to the door and peeks in, then puts her elbow over her nose as she cries out in disgust. She removes it only to call out to Gibson, “Nothing, really? Nothing to say?! There’s a walrus without a face in here!”

Stella Gibson just keeps walking.

****************

Spencer’s leading the gang of six down the hall toward the DYAD lobby when she hears muffled screams and banging on a door to her left. She turns and looks at the others, scared and confused.

“Becky,” Quinn says.

_Guess everybody’s awake now._

They continue without further comment and reach the main door. Lucy pushes a silver button to open it, and Spencer can’t help but think about how hard it was for them to get in here in the first place. Hopefully if they have to come back, they’ll have a new way in. She can’t face that terrible room and what’s left of Donna Noble, not right now.

Spencer walks over to room G36 and suddenly realizes that even though they have lab access, they no longer have a way of opening barrack doors. They tossed their Boomer head onto the web, and it’s long burned up now. They’d have to go all the way upstairs to find another one, and Sue will be up there by now. Leaning down, Spencer lifts the flap on the door and looks inside. “Hermione? Are you okay?”

She’s lying on the bed but stirs at the sound of her name. Turning to see who’s speaking, she says, “Spencer?” and rubs at her eyes, then moans loudly as if a headache just registered. “What’s going on?”

“You got knocked out in the fight about an hour ago. We locked you in here to keep you safe, but now we can’t get you out. Can you do that thing you did upstairs when you got Vasquez out? The teleporting thing?”

Hermione stretches her face muscles and shakes out her sore arms as she tries to stand. She walks over to the door and bends over to look through the thin slot. “I think so. I need to have a clear picture of where I’m going.”

“Everybody stand back,” Spencer says, and the other women move away. She steps out of the way, herself, and stands near the door to Lucy’s room, trying not to think about what horrors might be happening in there.

There’s a loud _crack!_ and Hermione appears in the hall out of thin air. She looks run down and tired, but at least she’s all in one piece and not visibly bleeding. “It’s really quite dangerous to do that spell in my current state.”

“How did she do that?” Delphine asks, but everyone ignores her.

“We’re glad you’re okay.” Spencer gives Hermione’s shoulder a little squeeze and looks her over quickly to be sure she’s not injured. “A lot’s happened, but there isn’t time to go through it all right now. Sue’s about to be inspected about the missing girls, and we need your help to take her down. This is Dr. Delphine the Clone Scientist who’s going to get us back into the lab without incident if she ever wants to see her girlfriend again.”

Hermione doesn’t seem to take issue with hostages or threats at this stage in their day. “What can I do?”

“We need to get me upstairs,” Spencer says. “Not _me_ me, another me. She can’t walk, and we’re all too hurt to carry her. I was hoping you could do that spell again.”

“I _can’t_ apparate again, I just explained,” Hermione says impatiently.

“No, the one you used to float the heads and the tasers.”

Delphine’s face says, _“What?”_  and she gawks quietly, but no one acknowledges her.

“Alright,” Hermione says. “Show me what you need me to do.”

****************

“This is all Spencer Hastings’ fault!” Sue cries as Stella Gibson walks on ahead of her. “She’s got some killer spider and she’s been setting it loose inside the prison.”

Gibson stops and turns, her steely expression ever the same. “Who’s Spencer Hastings?”

“Some teenager we brought in a few months ago on a murder charge. She’s been blabbering on about some space spider for weeks. She must have smuggled it in with one of those rectal bags the kids use to take heroin on airplanes – You know the ones. And now she’s wreaking havoc on MY PRISON.” Sue punches the wall in anger and immediately regrets it, gasping and nursing her tender knuckles, already sore from the interrogation earlier.

The detective considers this. “Seems like quite a lot for one little spider. Didn’t you say you had a cannibal on board?”

“Lunchbag Rodriguez left a month ago,” Sue dismisses.

Gibson crosses her arms. “So, you now have _another_ inmate who you claim is eating your staff one at a time, but with the use of a ‘heroin rectal spider.’ ”

“I’M HAVING A BAD DAY,” Sue snaps.

Gibson turns and starts walking away, her shoes clacking loudly down the hall. “I noticed.”

****************

With all the strange things she’s seen today, Spencer shouldn’t be fazed by a beaten, unconscious version of herself cuffed to a chair floating three feet above the ground. But she is.

Hermione’s carefully guiding the girl with her wand, making sure not to let her get too high or steer off course. They left Delphine behind with Cosima at Spencer’s protest, but at least Hermione was able to use her locking charm on the door to seal them in. Now, with their path presumably clear, Spencer’s crew has to successfully levitate the decoy and get it down the halls to the elevator. It’s not quick, but it beats carrying her by hand, so Spencer’s trying not to complain. Hermione’s deep in concentration, clearly using all her mental strength to focus on the task over this great distance. It’s probably harder to lift a whole person than just the head, but Spencer’s trying not to think about that right now.

They make it to the end of the hall, where it intersects perpendicularly with the other main hallway. They’re halfway there.

As they cross from one into the other, the giant double doors to the docking bay suddenly slide open with a loud hiss. Everyone turns, startled, and the Spencer clone comes crashing to the floor loudly as Hermione’s focus slips.

“FREEZE!” booms the voice of Kima Greggs. She’s got her taser out and pointed at each of the women in turn as she moves sideways across the floor. She looks much more intimidating than Buffy or Boomer ever did, and Spencer can’t help but wonder if she used to be a cop before she joined this shipwreck. “Everybody, down on the ground, hands behind your head!”

_Yep. Definitely a cop._

But nobody’s moving. They’ve got her outnumbered six to one, and she only has the single taser. Even unarmed, they could almost certainly take her if it came to that.

“I was just goin’ to pee,” Greggs says, exasperated, “but no, now I gotta get y’all’s punk asses back in your cells, because I can’t have just one good day.”

“We’re going upstairs right now,” Spencer says. “We came down here by mistake, and now we’re going back to our cells. I pro—”

But now Greggs sees the beaten girl in the chair and switches into high-alert mode. “Hey, what’s—”

In a flash, the chair rises from the floor and flies at the guard faster than anyone could ever throw it. The clone’s knees strike Greggs in the chest, knocking her to the ground, and Hermione – arms forward, wand out -- manages to stop it mid-air before the momentum carries the chair halfway down the hall. She sets it down gently and releases the spell, exhaling heavily in relief and resting her hands on her knees. “Sorry!” she whispers, grimacing.

She might mean it as a joke; Spencer can’t tell.

“We’ll take care of it,” Ripley says to the rest, looking at Vasquez. They take the unconscious guard by the arms and drag her back into the docking bay. “Keep going. We’ll meet you back here.”

“Please don’t kill her,” Hermione says. All eyes turn to her, curious as to the change of heart after the vicious events of the afternoon. “Just, please trust me, okay? She knows the ship better than we do. We might need her for information. And she’s human, not a crazy robot monster like the others.”

A pause to consider this, and nobody’s arguing the point. Vasquez and Ripley continue pulling Greggs by the arms toward the docking bay. Spencer knows better than to ask what they’re going to do. And really, she doesn’t want to know. She has enough terrible things on her conscience to last her a lifetime. Turning to the other half of her team, she asks, “You know the plan?”

“We got it,” Quinn replies.

Spencer hates splitting up again, but it’s their best chance to make this work. The door slides closed behind Ripley, and Quinn and Lucy break off in the opposite direction. Hermione resumes her magical task, and Spencer awkwardly watches her half-dead twin float down the hallway, head falling from side to side as she leans this way and that.

****************

Sue and Detective Gibson retrace their bloody steps until they reach the start of the cell block. Marching at full speed, Sue powers down the corridor, looking inside every open cell for someone, _anyone_ , but they’re all gone. Her inventory of criminal women has simply disappeared. For a moment, she wonders if that British witch-girl managed to Houdini her entire population elsewhere, but it seems like a stretch. They have to be _somewhere._

Around cell 15, Gibson stops and looks down toward the end of the hall, squinting a bit. “What’s that?” She steps over another body, making her way toward a large, dark object in the distance.

Sue looks where Gibson’s looking, but she has no idea what that thing is. “Uh…it’s a…”

“It looks like a phone booth,” Gibson says, still walking.

“That’s right,” Sue stalls, desperately checking cells for a distraction while she can figure something out. “You’re exactly right.”

“What’s it doing _here_?” Gibson asks.

Sue cuts past her and turns her body so she’s walking backward with Gibson but blocking her path. “It’s great, you’re gonna love it. I’ll show it to you right after we find Spencer Hastings.” Sue trips over a Boomer leg but recovers before falling over.

“Perhaps they know where she is,” Gibson says.

She comes to a stop in front of cell 10, the only one with a closed door, and Sue looks over, startled, to see someone’s actually there. Sure enough, behind the bars are Aphasia and Mack -- not two of the brightest bulbs in the prison, but they might still be useful. Right now, Sue’s just glad to see anyone alive, even if it’s inmates who don’t create any profit. She was starting to wonder if this was one of those viral situations where only one percent of the population survives. Not that it would surprise her if one of these rabies-ridden women brought a vicious space disease onto her ship. Nor would it surprise her if she were mysteriously immune to the plague that wipes out humanity.

She bangs on the bars, waking Mack and drawing Aphasia’s attention from a deep daze facing the wall.

“What?” Aphasia snaps back.

“Where is everyone?!” Sue hollers.

“How should we know?” Aphasia says. “We don’t know shit.”

“Yeah,” Mack says, crossing her arms on the bed. “We don’t know shit.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that for a second,” Sue says with a coy smile. “And neither does Detective Gibson, here.”

Stella steps into view and crosses Sue to stand on the far side, staring the two girls down. “Which one is Spencer Hastings?”

“Pssh,” Aphasia says, handwaving. “That girl needs Jesus.”

“Never met her,” Mack says, shrugging.

“She used to live here!” Sue says.

“Lots of girls used to live here,” Mack says. “Somehow they keep ending up dead. You know anything about that, Sue?” Her voice is thick with that trademark intimidation she used to whip out in high school to scare freshmen out of their lunch money. “Because I’m not feeling like the administration here truly values my safety and is doing everything it can to protect my life.”

“What a coincidence,” Sue says, ignoring her, “that all the other inmates are gone, my guards are dead, and you two are sitting here like nothing’s happening.”

“If there’s a party, we didn’t get an invite.” Aphasia says. “I think the _detective_ would agree that we’re the last two people you should be looking at. Given the circumstances of our alibi behind this locked door and all. Wouldn’t you say, Detective?”

Gibson just looks at Sue with a raised eyebrow.

“Who says the door was closed?” Sue says with a maniacal gleam in her eye and yanks on it, but it doesn’t budge. She takes out her key ring and finds the master, sliding it into the lock. But when she turns it, the door still won’t open.

Now Aphasia’s the one looking smug. She pulls an old Newsweek magazine out from under her pillow and flips through casually as Sue yanks on the door and kicks it for good measure.

“Fine. We’ll be back.” Sue pumps her head forward threateningly, biting her lip for effect. “I’m sure Detective Gibson would love to read through your very long and detailed file. It’s like Moby Dick.” She considers her analogy. “If Moby Dick were written about an African-American girl instead of a white man and took place in space instead of on the ocean, and instead of chasing a wh—”

“WE GET IT,” Aphasia yells back.

****************

Their task complete, Spencer, Quinn, Lucy, and Hermione meet back at the T-intersection, where Ripley and Vasquez are waiting.

“Someone’s here,” Ripley says. “We saw a ship in the dock.”

“Probably the inspector,” Quinn says. Nobody has any better ideas. “We should get up there.”

“Good luck,” Spencer says. She fidgets a bit as they take off toward the stairwell without her, but she can’t be a part of this phase of their plan.

The two clones, now dressed in navy P.M.S. uniforms with tasers strapped to their belts, head for the stairwell door. Quinn opens it, and Lucy stands there, looking ahead with wonder.

“What is that?” she asks, like a six-year-old at Epcot staring up at the big, silver sphere.

Quinn turns around, eyebrow high. “A flight of stairs?”

Lucy’s face lights up. “Stairs can _fly?!”_  She finds Spencer’s eyes. “I found a stairs!” she beams. “Come look!”

Spencer laughs, “It’s okay. I’ve seen them before. Go on, now. You can do it.”

“You’ll need to show me how they work,” Lucy says to Quinn as she steps through the doorway. “I’ve never flown before.”

Spencer listens with a doofy smile for Quinn’s explanation, but one never comes. She can just imagine Quinn’s face, thoroughly unamused by the naïveté, as she trudges on up and trusts Lucy to watch and follow. After all, it’s not rocket science, it’s stairs. Sure enough, a moment later, Spencer hears the confident pitter-pat of feet passing the first landing and continuing up. Sisterly bonding, complete.

 _Always a first time for everything_ , she muses. Even on days like today.

****************

“What’s the connection between Spencer Hastings and the inmate we just spoke to?” Gibson asks Sue as they step over the pile of Boomer pieces and head back in the direction they came.

“Spank buddies,” Sue says. She’s almost running as she talks, though it’s more to look busy and important. She has no idea where to go to get out of this mess. They’re almost out of the cell block now, and she can take Stella back to her office and kill time there. Maybe finally seduce her. It’s hard to arrest someone when they’re doing the horizontal mambo with you, and Sue is nothing if not a great dancer. “And I guarantee she knows more than she’s letting on. She knows where Spencer is.”

“Don’t you?” Gibson says, stopping in her tracks just outside the engine room. “I assumed we were on our way to go talk to her.”

Sue opens her mouth to speak but then pauses, clearly trying to figure out which lie to tell. “She’s dead. Eaten by her own spider. Did I not mention that?”

“No.” They stare at each other for a moment, curiously. “Where’s the body? I’d like to examine it.”

“Well, there wasn’t enough left _to_ examine, I’m afraid,” says Sue. “Just a pile of hair on her uniform, like a creepy death wig. It was weirding out some of the other inmates, so we burned it. I figured the spider was living in it and burned right along with it, but I see now that I was mistaken.”

Gibson’s clearly not buying any of it, but before she can question Sue further, she hears incoming footsteps. They both turn to see two young women in guards’ uniforms running toward them in quite a hurry.

****************

With Hermione right behind her, Spencer takes the stairs two at a time and listens carefully at the door. She needs to make sure Lucy and Quinn get away before they reenter the second level.

“Okay, all clear,” Spencer whispers, then they step out into the T-intersection, making sure not to trip on the pile of Boomers at their feet. The sound of voices carrying down the hall tells her the others are down toward Processing, so hopefully she and Hermione can reach their destination without incident.

Stepping off to the right, they begin the trek down the cell block, but it’s harder than she anticipated. There are bodies everywhere – bleeding, disheveled, even dismembered. They seem to all be Boomers, fortunately, but it’s hard to tell when most of them are lying face down. Many of the navy-blue guard uniforms are stained black with blood. From what Spencer can see, the only inmate casualty is Lorna Morello, but she didn’t seem to be one for physical violence anyway.

Hermione goes on ahead as Spencer takes an inventory of the scene. She only saw the beginning of the battle, but the inmates clearly won the war. There are at least twenty dead guards here and no injured inmates left behind. They must have all gotten away and headed down the cell block toward the back of the ship. It’s awfully quiet in here right now. Too quiet.

****************

_“LET ME OUT OF HERE! I’M GONNA KILL YOU!”_

The thuds of Becky pounding on the door echo throughout the laboratory corridor. Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins takes her time walking toward the source of the noise and then pounds back a few times where, in her estimation, Becky’s face is pressed against the other side.

“Shut up,” she says loudly. When the girl complies, the doctor holds a keycard up to the reader and scans it. Opening the door, she looks at Becky and says, “Seriously. Calm the fuck down.”

“YOU CALM DOWN!” Becky shouts back, pushing the door further open to exit the supply closet. “Those bitches locked me in here! Took you long enough!”

The doctor ignores the comment, not concerned in the slightest with how long Becky may have been sitting in there. “You’re welcome.”

“Screw you!” Becky yells in her face and storms off down the hall toward the cloning chamber. “Screw all of you!” She makes a left down the hall toward the trash room, and Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins hears a distant beep of a door opening, which is weird because there aren’t any rooms in that direction.

But the doctor has better things to do than babysit Sue’s odd assistant, so she goes to find her wife and the scientists, who may have started Settlers of Catan without her.

****************

Sue Sylvester is wigging the fuck out.

“Warden! There you are,” calls Lucy, slowing down as they approach. “We’ve done a full sweep of the cell block and searched all the rooms on this level like you ordered, but there’s no sign of Spencer Hastings.”

“And given the state of Dr. Umbridge and Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins,” Quinn says, catching her breath, “we feel we should stay close to protect you. If Hastings planned the jailbreak, she could be gunning for you, ma’am.”

Sue’s at a loss for words. She looks back and forth between the two clones, identical except for the hair, short pink versus long blonde. The resemblance is even more striking now that they’re wearing identical clothes. But why they’re pretending to be guards – pretending they want to help Sue – is completely baffling to her. She considers outing them right here and now, but that could be exactly what they want, to make her look bad in front of the detective by showing how easy it is to escape and impersonate an officer. Sue’s not going to give them the satisfaction. She’ll play along.

“Thank god you’re both all right,” she says, as sincerely as she can. Where Lucy’s concerned, she actually means it, so it’s only a half-lie.

Gibson turns to Sue and says, “If you already know Hastings is dead, why did you send your guards to search for her?”

“She may have faked her own death for all we know!” Sue says, saving face. “It was a really bad wig.”

Gibson looks at the two girls and reads their identical name tags. “Thank you, Officer…Boomer. Both of you. I didn’t realize Sue hired a pair of sisters to work for her.”

Lucy smiles and looks at Sue as she says, “It’s nice getting to see her every day. I get really upset when I’m separated from my family. I’m so grateful to Sue for bringing us back together.” The cheerful frosting of her tone and expression is only thinly covering the murderous insinuations underneath.

Sue’s quickly looking for a way out of this conversation. She says, “Well, that’s enough Kumbayah,” and starts walking in the direction of her office. The other three follow closely, keeping pace. Quinn stays in the back and sneaks in glances behind. No sign of her friends, or anyone else for that matter, which is a good thing.

They hear Sue’s reaction when she opens the door before they see the reason for it. There, right in the middle of the room, between the desk and the door, Spencer Hastings sits cuffed to a chair, bloody and beaten unconscious.

“Oh!” Lucy says, “You’ve already started interrogating her!”

Sue looks at Lucy, then at Quinn, then at Lucy again, then at Stella Gibson, then at Spencer, then back to Gibson.

“What’s going on?” Gibson asks.

“If we’d known she was here the whole time,” Quinn says to Sue, “we would’ve been evacuating the escaped prisoners like you said.”

“Evacuating?” Gibson asks.

“Venting them out the airlock,” Quinn says, like it should be obvious. “Standard protocol for major offenders.”

Gibson looks at Sue and then back to Quinn, shocked. “According to whom?”

“Our onboard training!” Quinn replies. “We have to make room for all the new arrivals. That’s how any prison makes its money.”

“Is it?” Gibson asks, looking at Sue again.

Sue’s mouth falls open for a second, but she doesn’t know what to say. She’s already corroborated Quinn and Lucy’s little acting gig, so that ship has sailed, but she’s not going to stand here and be incriminated by a bunch of bimbos. “Guards!” she says, retaking control of the conversation. “Start cleaning up the mess in the entryway. I’m tired of stepping on your coworkers.”

“Shouldn’t we be going after all the escaped inmates?” Lucy asks.

“Fine, yes, just go away!” Sue says, holding her hands by her face in frustration.

Quinn looks at Detective Gibson and says, “Did you want help carrying Spencer Hastings to your ship?”

“What?!” Sue interjects. After doing exactly what she said she wouldn’t do – revealing all her secrets like the villain in a bad superhero movie – Spencer has become a walking time bomb. Assuming she ever wakes up, that is. Sue wonders why the hell Becky didn’t kill her off an hour ago. And now Lucy and Quinn are setting her up to take a fall, but Sue’s not going down without a fight. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Gibson looks through the open door at the sleeping girl, face swollen with fresh bruises and lip crusted with blood. “She’s the leading suspect in a multi-murder investigation. You said just as much multiple times. I need to take her in for immediate health care and questioning.”

“She can get cleaned up here!” Sue says.

“Your doctor no longer has a _face_ ,” Gibson counters.

“SHE’S NOT LEAVING,” Sue yells

“I have no choice,” Gibson says sternly, like she wants Sue to keep her damn voice down. “Guards, please escort Miss Hastings to my ship. Leave her cuffed.”

Sue scowls and kicks the desk hard, which she immediately regrets. Picking up her trophies one at a time, she starts throwing them across the room like a child having a tantrum, growling in rage with each crash. The other women jump, startled, and look at each other, confused and unsure if they should intervene.

“Warden,” Detective Gibson starts, but it’s useless over the noise. “Is this necessary?”

Holding her arms out, Sue sweeps them across the shelves, taking down every picture and prize in her collection. The racket is deafening, and Sue’s clearly having a mental breakdown. She’s screaming and even starting to cry a little. The scene has become very uncomfortable for the others, but nobody knows what to do or say. Sue stomps over and yells in Quinn’s face, then Lucy’s, then stomps back over to her desk. Opening a drawer that Spencer didn’t get to search earlier, Sue reaches in, pulls out a revolver, and shoots the Spencer clone in the head, then does the same to Stella Gibson with one final roar of emotional rage.

Quinn grabs Lucy by the sleeve and takes off down the hall, as a bullet just barely misses her shoulder.

****************

“Thank god you’re all right,” Hermione says, standing in front of cell 10. Her hands are on the bars, and she’s resting her face against them in relief. Spencer’s giving them some space but staying close in case of trouble.

“Did you find Quinn?” Mack’s voice sounds from deep within the cell, heavy with anticipation.

“Yes, she’s fine,” Hermione assures them both.

As Spencer approaches the conversation, she can hear Aphasia laugh softly to herself. “My knight in shining armor. That’s what you want me to say, right?”

Hermione stands up, stung by the comment, and Spencer pauses. “I don’t know,” Hermione says. “Maybe, _I’m glad you’re all right.”_

“But _I’m_ not all right,” Aphasia snaps. “You can’t just lock me in here like a damn child!”

Hermione takes a step back and braces herself. “I was protecting you.”

“I don’t need your protection! I can take care of myself!” Aphasia’s still just out of Spencer’s view, but she can imagine the look on her face. “You know I got, like, a hundred weapons in here.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to have to use them,” Hermione says.

“But that’s not up to you! Don’t you get that? You don’t get to control everything all the time.” A pointing finger appears near the bars and then drops away. “And just because I get you shit does _not_ mean you control me!”

“I’m not trying to control you!” Hermione’s crying; Spencer can hear it in her voice. “Forgive me for not wanting the horde of armed guards attacking my girlfriend.”

“You know how I feel about needing to be able to get outta here. Did you think about how it felt when everybody else ran off together and I was just left here alone?”

Spencer hears Mack say something unintelligible, and Aphasia quickly tells her to shut up.

Hermione wipes her eyes on her sleeve. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just…needed to know that when I came back, you’d be here.”

“And what if you didn’t come back? Sue’s key couldn’t even open that door. You don’t lift that spell, I’m stuck in here forever.”

Spencer wasn’t exactly eavesdropping again, except she was, but now her interest is definitely piqued. “Wait, Sue was here?” she asks, walking over to join the conversation.

“Damn, girl,” Aphasia says in disgust. “You been standing there the whole time?! _Again?_  That's rude.”

Spencer puts her hands up in surrender and steps away and out of sight. “Sorry.”

“She’s not looking for you,” Aphasia says to Hermione. “She wants Spencer. Sue thinks she’s the one who killed all these people. I didn’t tell her shit.”

“Where’s Lucy?” Mack asks.

“She and Quinn went after Sue. We have a plan,” Hermione says.

“Oooh, _A PLAN!”_  Aphasia says sarcastically, waving spirit fingers in the air. “Do we get to help this time, or do we just sit here on our asses until you decide you need me to get you something. You got a headache, baby? I got tons of Aleve. That shit lasts for twelve hours.” Peeking around to look for Spencer, she adds, “I bet _you_ need another heavy-flow. I remember how you do.”

The sad part is, Spencer really wants to take her up on it.

Hermione doesn’t know what to say to Aphasia’s mean-spirited comments. “I had no idea you felt so used.” The unspoken _“by me”_  hangs in the air between them.

“Maybe if you didn’t lock me in here, you could see how far I’d go for you.” Aphasia lets that sit for a moment, then says, “I’m always here. You don’t need a spell for that. I’m not the one who disappears all the time.”

“Well,” Hermione spits back, “you’ll be glad to know I don’t have to do that anymore now that Umbridge is dead. Though, maybe I’ll just leave anyway, since you don’t even want to talk to me.”

Spencer’s head turns at Umbridge’s name. “What do y—”

A loud, sharp boom sounds from the opposite side of the ship. Spencer hasn’t heard it in a long time, but it’s unmistakable. Gunshots. Two of them.

“Hide!” Hermione shouts to Aphasia as she pushes Spencer aside and takes off running down toward cell 1, away from the noise.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Aphasia yells and bangs several times on the bars, but the girls are long gone.


	59. Trapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

A third gunshot sounds, and Spencer’s terrified.

_“TIME TO DIE!”_

It’s Sue, echoing in the distance. The fact that they hear her but can’t see her makes it scarier, somehow. She’s mad as hell and larger than life. And armed.

The sound of running footsteps is getting closer as Spencer and Hermione make their way down the corridor. The giant blue TARDIS is getting larger and clearer as they approach. But before they reach it, Quinn and Lucy come tearing around the corner, taking a wide angle to slip between the TARDIS and the cell door without slowing down.

“RUN!” Quinn shouts, and Spencer and Hermione instantly change directions and take off north again.

Just a moment later, there’s a loud _thud_ behind them and a weird noise, like a half-moan. Hermione stops and looks back, saying, “Hang on!” to the others.

Lucy and Quinn slow to a stop, as does Spencer, realizing they’re no longer being followed. They can’t see anything but the TARDIS, but they also don’t hear Sue’s maniacal screams anymore. Realizing they’re next to cell 10, Spencer looks inside to see it’s empty but still locked. Then, Aphasia’s mattress moves slightly and lifts as two sets of eyes peer out. Mack and Aphasia are hiding in the black hole. It’s like an optical illusion. Spencer squints and blinks, trying to make sense of it. Their bodies are just… _gone._ But at least they’re safe.

Hermione quickly backtracks to investigate, wand extended, then looks down and calls back, “It’s okay. Hurry.”

The three girls jog down, hearts pounding in their chests, and see Sue passed out cold on the ground next to the TARDIS with a gash on her head. She must not have known it was there and crashed right into it, Spencer realizes.

“Idiot,” Quinn says, picking the gun up off the floor. She checks the chamber to verify there are still three bullets left, then spins it back into place.

“Be careful with that,” Spencer starts, but receives no reply. It’s quite intimidating how comfortable Quinn seems with the weapon, but also incredibly sexy. But in that way where she kind of hates being turned on by it because it’s bad. Like smoking. Which, she hasn’t forgotten, Quinn does as well.

“I detest those things,” Hermione says, eyeing the gun. “They’re reckless _and_ dangerous.”

“And your fire-throwing stick is any safer?” Quinn retorts. She’s fiddling with the top of her uniform, trying to get the heavy revolver to stay in her bra, but the elastic isn’t strong enough to support the extra weight.

“It doesn’t fire unless I tell it to, literally,” Hermione says. “It takes knowledge, talent, and skill to wield, unlike your clumsy, Muggle weapon,” But it seems Quinn couldn’t care less, and Hermione doesn’t push the point any further. Watching the clumsy display as Quinn jams the gun in between her breasts, she adds, “At least be sure the safely is on.” She sounds equal parts tired and annoyed.

“Safety,” Quinn corrects her, trying one last attempt in her left foam cup, but it falls back out. She gives up and unzips her uniform to her waist, folds it down, and tucks the gun into the back of her underwear. The action reveals a black bra and flat stomach that have until now only been the things of Spencer’s dreams. And, speaking of smoking, the bra seems to be equally stuffed with soft packs of Marlboro Lights and breasts.

Really, _really_ nice breasts.

Spencer almost lets out an audible gasp of surprise. This is the first time she’s seen Quinn like this. Yet, it seems oddly familiar – and then Spencer remembers she’s seen _Lucy_   like this and far more. But it’s different, making Spencer’s stomach twist into knots, because it’s Quinn. Spencer can see her waistline now, and it’s a pair of black boy briefs with white lettering. Even sexier than the blue panties Spencer’s been imagining all this time in her fantasies.

Spencer really misses having underwear.

_Oh god, and they match her bra perfectly._

Quinn catches her watching and doesn’t look away or deter from her task of slowly zipping her uniform back over her perfect…

Pulling herself back to reality, Spencer turns away and asks, “So! Now what? Where’s the inspector?”

“Sue shot her,” Lucy says.

 _“What?!”_   Spencer and Hermione say in unison.

“Right in the head,” Lucy says. “It was a clean shot. Barely any blood.” She sounds a little sad about that last part. Her P.M.S uniform has only a little splatter on the sleeve.

“I think she was a detective,” Quinn says, putting the gun into her bra. She then adds, “Sue shot you, too.”

Spencer’s face goes white as a sheet. _“WHAT?!”_   This may be the hardest piece of information to swallow yet today. Being punched repeatedly in the face was one thing, but Sue putting a gun to her head and pulling the trigger? Thinking it was her? It shows how close Spencer really was to dying today. If Lucy and Quinn hadn’t swapped her out with a clone…

And now she’s overwhelmed with the guilt of being responsible for an innocent girl’s death. Spencer hopes beyond hope that the girl was peacefully anesthetized before they roughed her up. She doesn’t want the last thing the girl felt to be pain. She went to sleep, had a nightmare, and never woke up. Spencer wonders what the girl was like. If she was anything like her. If they talked similarly. If they liked the same kind of books and music. If they had the same taste in…anything. Anyone.

There may be a dozen more like her downstairs, but Spencer’s not naïve enough to believe they’re all exactly the same. If knowing Quinn and Lucy has taught her anything, it’s that your actions and experiences define who you are, not your DNA. And now this girl will never have the chance to get off this ship and live a real life, however fucked up it may have been at the start.

Spencer’s knees start to give out, and she tries to smoothly transition to sitting on the ground, but it’s a hard fall. She’s barely remaining conscious and on the brink of fainting. They haven’t eaten all day, just been powered on adrenaline and determination and fear. It’s catching up to her again as the evening grows later, and she’s growing weaker every hour.

Hands buried in her hair as her elbows rest on her knees, Spencer says quietly, “Where did she even get a gun?”

“It was in her desk,” Quinn says.

“You never saw it?” Hermione asks gently.

Spencer closes her eyes and curses herself for not searching more thoroughly. She was too engrossed in the files she swiped from Umbridge’s office. They could’ve been so much better today with a gun in hand. Defeated their enemies more easily. Persuaded people to do what they needed. Or maybe it all could’ve gone horribly wrong. They could’ve punctured a window and been sucked into space. Maybe one of her friends would be accidentally shot. Maybe Spencer herself. Right now, all she can think about is what she must look like with a bullet in her skull. Nobody is supposed to know that. And yet, she can see it for herself just down the hall.

“Why did she kill the detective?” Spencer asks without looking up.

“She didn’t say,” Quinn replies. “I guess she really didn’t want you to go.”

Spencer exhales and closes her eyes. “I know too much. She talked a _lot_ while she was beating the crap out of me. I guess most of it was true.” She looks over at Sue and fixates on the blood in her hair. “So, now she can’t let me live. And I guess she thought if she killed me, she’d have to kill the witnesses, too. Even a cop. And you.”

Their plan has quickly gone to shit. They just wanted to get the inspector out of here. That’s all. Take control of the situation, control the outcome. Sue was obviously going to fail the inspection, but they hoped that by pushing suspicion to Spencer, the clone would be arrested and taken away, unable to implicate anyone or confess to any crimes. They felt bad sending an innocent girl away like that with no idea what was happening to her, but the police wouldn’t be able to charge her without proof. At the very least, it would buy the real Spencer more time to figure out their next move. And it would keep Sue here and in charge, which is what Cosima and Delphine want. But now there are two more innocent, dead bodies – all because they stuck their noses in -- and nothing is solved to show for it.

Lying back flat on the floor, Spencer rubs her eyes and starts thinking out loud. “Okay. The detective’s dead. Sue’s managed to knock herself unconscious. And there’s a dead version of me sitting in her office. Which means she thinks _I’m_ dead.” Everything’s moving in fast-forward in her mind as the movie plays out several possible endings. There doesn’t seem to be one yet where she, Lucy, and Quinn all make it out alive. They can’t let Sue remain in charge now. She’ll kill them the moment she wakes up. “Are we sure there aren’t any guards left? Nobody left on Sue’s side? I really can’t handle any more surprises today.” It feels very strange being so out in the open with no authority figures left and no other inmates around.

_Where the hell IS everyone?_

“I haven’t seen any,” Hermione offers.

Lucy gives a small, contented smile. “My work here is done.” But the look in her eyes is distant, and Spencer wonders how conflicted Lucy feels about Sue firing bullet at her. Lucy’s been defending Sue all day, and it’s no secret there’s a kind of loose maternal relationship there. Maybe today is the end of an era for the prison in more ways than one.

Spencer says to Hermione, “Will you go get Ripley and Vasquez downstairs? We need to move Sue before she wakes up.”

“I can lift her myself,” Hermione reminds her in her familiar condescending tone, but Spencer shakes her head.

“No.” She shakes off the memory of the clone floating eerily down the hall. “We’ll do this the old-fashioned way, okay? Please.” Imagining the path ahead of her friend, she adds, “Don’t tell the DYAD people anything.”

Hermione nods and starts walking down the hall, not looking particularly thrilled to be on this task. Spencer watches as Hermione reaches cell 10, slows and looks inside, then keeps walking without a word.

Spencer turns her attention back to her current companions and realizes she’s alone with Quinn and Lucy for the first time since that horrible day in the bathroom. The circumstances are substantially different, but it’s still awkward and uncomfortable. At least it is for her; she’s not sure about them. It’s not just because of the concussed woman on the ground.

“I need to pee,” Spencer says, having reminded herself of the bathroom. It’s just right there, anyway. “Be right back.” Standing over the warden’s body, she considers her options and then kicks Sue hard in the right-side temple. “For good measure,” she says, then stands and walks off slowly.

Even with all the guards presumably dead, it feels weird moving around the prison by herself. The bathroom’s empty, though, and she’s able to take care of her business without incident. There’s a faint rumbling noise in the background that she can’t quite place, however, and as she listens harder, she can pick out the rise and fall of voices. Yelling. Very angrily.

She cleans up and washes her hands quickly, making her way back to rejoin the two sisters. She sees Ripley and Vasquez approaching from the other side of the TARDIS, but Hermione’s not with them. Looking in the distance, Spencer sees Hermione stopped down by 10. Hopefully healing some wounds.

“Hey,” Ripley says, catching up to the group. She looks Quinn and Lucy over, saying, “We heard what happened. Are you okay?”

“We’re fine,” Spencer says, though she means it only on a superficial, _“We’re alive”_  level. “You need to lock up Sue.”

Vasquez gives a half-grin and a small laugh, looking all too happy to take on this task.

“We can’t kill her yet,” Spencer adds. “Someone might come asking questions or looking for the detective inspector woman, and we’ll need to have an authoritative face. The President could come back, for all we know. Right now, a raging lunatic Sue is better than no Sue at all.”

“Fine, let’s put her in here,” Ripley says, meaning cell 1.

“Excuse me?” Lucy says, stepping forward angrily. “No. That’s my home.”

Spencer raises her eyebrows. “Fun idea -- I thought maybe you’d want to do the honors of putting her somewhere else.” Reaching into her pocket, Spencer pulls out a rusty, old key and offers it to her friend.

Ripley’s eyes regain a bit of their light. “Best one I’ve heard all day.” Taking the key, she then grabs Sue’s feet as Vasquez takes her arms, and they start carrying her away in the direction of Solitary.

As the three younger women are left alone again, Quinn gazes back down the hall at the carnage of dead Boomers strewn here and there. “You’ve had a day.”

“Yeah.” Spencer doesn’t know what else to say.

Quinn nods, a little uncomfortable. A lot of people died in her name today. “And now there’s a prison full of angry criminals on the loose with no guards to keep them from killing us or each other.”

“It’s our ship now,” Lucy says with fire in her eyes, startling the other two. “I’ve killed everyone on it before, and I’ll do it again.”

“Well, hopefully it won’t come to that,” Spencer says. She’s seen enough death for one day and thousands more. “We might want to start thinking about what our next move is.” She feels exhausted just saying the words. Spencer doesn’t want to make any more decisions, not right now. They’ve finally reached the end, at least for today. Quinn is rescued, the spiders are dead, and they’re no longer in any immediate danger. They can deal with Sue and the other inmates tomorrow. Spencer just wants to curl up with Quinn on that familiar top bunk, strap them in with the seatbelt, and let the horrors of the last six hours melt away to memories. They won, and now it’s time to rest.

About ten minutes later, Vasquez and Ripley come back, lightly jogging down the hall.

“We may have a problem.”

****************

Ripley leads Lucy, Vasquez, Quinn, and Spencer down the hall that runs alongside the west side of the cafeteria, passing the place where Boomer tased Spencer. It feels like weeks ago, not merely a few hours. As they reach the back, the smell from the trash chute gets stronger, as does the density of smoke in the air and the rumble of voices in the distance. Quinn coughs once as they reach the clearing, but otherwise they travel in silence.

Spencer’s worried to hear what issue Ripley and Vasquez had locking Sue up, but it doesn’t look like they’re continuing in the direction of Solitary. Ripley crosses past the trash chute and reaches out with one hand to open the door to the kitchen, holding a finger to her mouth with a silent, _“Shh.”_

The group walks softly into the long, wide space riddled with metal countertops and shelving units and dish racks. There seems to be no shortage of trays and cans of tomato paste, or, unfortunately, giant cans labeled _BSM_. Spencer’s never been in here, but it does seem to be emptier than she expected, canned goods aside. They wind past the sinks and cross to the far side, and the voices in the cafeteria are getting louder and clearer. Ripley edges them up toward the window where inmates return trays to be cleaned, making sure to keep everyone out of sight. They’re just here to listen. And it just so happens that the leading voice is one Spencer doesn’t need to see to recognize.

It’s Vee. _“I don’t know why you’re objecting. We’re being more than fair.”_

 _“It’s fucked up!”_   someone cries out.

 _“So’s your face,”_  another voice snaps back, _“but you don’t hear me complaining!”_

There’s an immediate sound like a slap, and chaos breaks out in the aftermath. It sounds like a struggle, maybe a fistfight, with yelling on both sides until the unmistakable voice of Jessica Huang booms over the noise. _“EVERYONE STOP HITTING AND LET THE PANTHER WOMAN SPEAK.”_

That mostly does it, and Vee is able to regain control from there as the room quiets down fully. _“Ladies! Ladies. I realize it’s a new way of thinking. Sue’s been filling your heads for years with nonsense, telling you you’ll be going home again if you just keep your head down. Make no mistake about it – none of us are ever going home again. This is our home for the rest of our lives. And it will only be as good as we make it, so it’s up to us to make it good. I believe that we can. I_ know _that we can. We’ve broken the law, but we are not broken.”_

Spencer raises her eyebrows, rather surprised by what she’s hearing. Vee sounds on point. Maybe this could even be the start of a new alliance between th—

 _“Which is why it’s absolutely necessary that we all contribute to the new order in a meaningful way. We each have something to share. We have a skill. We have a connection.”_  Her tone of voice darkens as she continues. _“And as I’ve explained, those of you who don’t bring something of value to the table will be dealt with. No more freeloading.”_

Spencer looks at Ripley, who's instead looking for Lucy's reaction.

 _“And what the fuck do YOU bring to the table?”_  an angry inmate asks. Spencer was wondering the same thing. _“Because all I see is a bossy motherfucker who just put a big-ass target on her back. You better sleep with one eye open, bitch.”_

 _“What I bring,”_  Vee says confidently, _“is structure. Leadership. Experience and order. I have plans to get more luxuries for everyone on board. Healthy food. Comfortable clothing. Actual bedding to sleep on. Entertainment items. Television. Even the possibility of short visits back to Earth before anyone notices you’re gone. And you can earn it. You can earn a better life.”_

 _“Bullshit!”_  a few inmates yell, along with a few related obscenities.

“How the hell is she going to do that?” Spencer whispers to the others.

 _“Join us,”_   Vee continues, undeterred, _“and become part of the most powerful women in this prison. We control the weapons, the food, and the way out. We are the future of the_ Uterius.” Her tone shifts again. _“Fight us…and there’s nowhere for you to run.”_

A mix of applause and boos rises in the cafeteria. Without seeing who's cheering and who's dissenting, it's hard for Spencer to grasp just what's happening in there. “Who's 'us'?” she asks Ripley.

But Ripley just turns away slightly, brow furrowed, indicating she doesn’t know.

“Tastee. Poussey,” Lucy says confidently, counting them on her fingers. “Suzanne. Kat. Johanna. Graham. Violet. Nichols. Sarah Connor – the hot one. Probably more.”

“Could she have a majority?” Ripley asks.

Lucy shakes her head. “No. I have at least twenty. A has the rest. But the few who haven't picked a side yet won't be going to Vee.”

Spencer has no idea what they're talking about, but she sure as shit didn’t miss that middle part. “Wait, _‘A’?_  Who the fuck is A?” she asks quietly as the verbal sparring continues in the main room. “And what sides?”

Vasquez, Quinn, Lucy, and Ripley all look at her like she's just said she's never heard of Meryl Streep or doesn't know where babies come from.

Lucy offers them a reassuring, “She's with me,” like Spencer's just being an idiot.

The longer they talk about this, the more she's starting to feel like one. “Really?” Spencer asks, half sincerely but with plenty of attitude.

“Didn’t I promise to keep you safe?” Lucy asks.

 _What, during our_ orgies _?_  Spencer wants to say but doesn’t.

When she doesn’t reply, Lucy quietly walks over to Spencer, not breaking eye contact, and doesn’t stop moving until their faces are inches apart. It’s a familiar situation, those long hours of dominance and submission, and Spencer’s pulse begins racing without her consent. In the blink of an eye, Lucy’s hand finds Spencer’s throat, lifting her chin more than squeezing it as Lucy examines her prey. But Spencer doesn’t fight back, just closes her eyes and waits for whatever is going to happen next.

After ten very long seconds, Lucy leans in and whispers in Spencer’s ear, _“Besides…I already have you trained._ ” She releases her hold as suddenly as it began and then walks back to sit on the counter without another word.

Spencer shivers, trying to shake it off, but she’s not certain what part is bothering her most. Probably the moisture between her legs.

The awkward moment ends abruptly – much to Spencer’s relief – at the distant sound of the cafeteria doors flinging open. There’s a hushed silence that quickly spreads through the crowd, and the fugitives frantically look at each other in vain for an answer. Spencer dares to peek one eye around a corner slowly to see what’s going on, and all eyes are on one woman.

Aphasia. Pointing a double barrel shotgun right at Vee.

Hermione is following closely behind, wand in hand but at her side.

Vee turns her body to face the intruder and straightens up, not the least bit concerned to have a gun to her head. “I was starting to worry about you two,” she says.

“Yeah, I bet you were, _bitch_ ,” Aphasia spits, readjusting her aim. “Time to die.” She thumbs the hammer to arm it with a _click_ and grits her teeth.

“No!” Suzanne shouts and slides in front of Vee, waving her arms. “I can’t let you do that,” she says bravely with very wide eyes.

“Guess you’re as stupid as you look,” Aphasia says nastily and takes a step closer, now aiming at Suzanne’s head.

Spencer finds herself temporarily distracted, wondering how the hell Aphasia ended up with such an old-timey weapon in outer space. Maybe she, Quinn, and Mack held up a few stagecoaches before they upgraded to banks. Then, Spencer realizes the implications of a shotgun shell piercing the walls of the ship, and her panic kicks into high gear.

“WAIT! STOP!” she screams, tripping over various pots and pans as she throws herself over the open window where inmates usually return dirty trays. The sounds of her comrades cursing her stupidity are lost in the shuffle as the whole room shifts in her direction. Including Aphasia. And her gun. “Don’t shoot!”

“Girl, what the fuck are you doing?” Aphasia shouts. “Mind your own damn business!”

Spencer’s hands are high in the air. “We’re on a spaceship! One hole in the hull, and all our oxygen goes. We won’t be able to stop it.” When that doesn’t work, she says with finality, “If you fire that gun, everybody dies.”

Vee doesn’t argue the point and sits quietly with a raised eyebrow, glad the attention is off her for the moment.

“Pretty sure they’re gonna be the only ones dying today,” says Aphasia. “Unless you keep flapping that trap. I got enough bullets for all three of you.”

Hermione steps closer, looking hurt. “A,” she says, and reaches for Aphasia’s arm, giving it a light squeeze.

After everything that happened back in Rosewood, there will never be a day when mention of “A” doesn’t set Spencer on edge. But this isn’t her high school tormenter, it’s her ally. And if Aphasia is in fact the leader of the rebellion against Vee, Spencer can live with that. Provided she gets “A” to put the goddamn gun down. “Hey, I hate Vee, too! But we can talk this out,” Spencer says.

Vee raises an eyebrow and smiles wryly. “That’s sweet.”

Spencer ignores her and remains focused on Aphasia, who hasn’t lowered the weapon yet. “Whatever is happening here,” she continues. “Let’s just talk. Nobody has to die.”

Vee looks surprisingly calm, given the circumstances. Like this is just another a typical day, staring down the barrel of a shotgun. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

The eyes of the other fifty inmates are going back and forth like a tennis match between the women, waiting for something to happen. Instead of seeming scared of imminent gunfire, they just look quite entertained.

Aphasia’s clinging to the weapon like her life depends on it, trembling slightly in her rage as she maintains her aim. “But it’s all her fault! Quinn, the others, everything! She did it. And now she’s gonna die.”

Spencer drops her hands without meaning to, but she’s totally taken aback by the statement. “Wait, _what?_  What about Quinn?”

Off to Spencer’s left, Rosa Diaz slaps Sameen Shaw hard on the shoulder without saying a word. Shaw then turns and punches Diaz square in the jaw, knocking her to the ground.

“What the fuck?” Rosa recovers and holds a hand to her bloody lip. “Fine, let spiders crawl all over you.” Sure enough, there’s one on the ground at their feet, dead.

Shaw snaps back at her, but it’s lost in the high-pitched wailing of a joint Maritza-and-Flaca-freakout. They’re flapping their hands and lifting one foot at a time, as if tip-toeing on hot pavement, and making a noise that could shatter glass. Spencer turns, eyes wide, to see what they’re looking at back toward the kitchen.

Poussey says, “The fuck is _that?!”_  and Spencer sees movement out of the corner of her eye by the far kitchen door. The one near the garbage chute.

A swarm of spiders is flooding into the room, too many for Spencer to even begin to count. That’s when the screaming of the general crowd starts. Not more of the shrill, horror movie kind of screams, but the lower register, angry roars of felons who aren’t afraid of anything. Except a swarm of spiders.

Everyone starts running and climbing up on tables, but Spencer knows these monsters will scale furniture without issue. The consensus of the mob is to retreat, with one exception -- Lexa’s in the middle of the room stomping around with a monstrous scowl, chanting, _“Jus drein, jus daun! Jus drein, jus daun!”_  with every dramatic kill. Why she’s chanting about putting juice down the drain, Spencer doesn’t know, but she gives Lexa credit for being the only one charging toward the action instead of running from it.

Ripley, Vasquez, Quinn, and Lucy are shouting and rummaging in the kitchen; Spencer can only assume they’re fighting for their lives. She wants to go after them and help, but there’s too much chaos to get there. Everyone is yelling and high-stepping, pushing and climbing over each other. Nichols collapses suddenly to the ground, unconscious, and Big Boo hurries to her. She smashes the spiders gnawing on Nichols’ ankles, and quickly lifts and throws her girlfriend over her shoulder in one move. It’s harder to move with the extra weight, and the spiders were already much faster than her before. Boo’s kicking and stomping, but she can’t see what’s down there. Then, she slips, and Nichols falls and hits her head on the bench before slamming to the ground.

“We need help!” Spencer cries out, but there aren’t any authorities left to assist them. They have to see this through themselves. “Weapons!” Looking around frantically, nobody’s really listening, but she keeps yelling anyway. “Somebody get weapons!”

“On it,” Idgie replies and takes off running for the door.

Spencer barely knows her, but it feels nice knowing someone was listening and taking her seriously. She watches the Southerner push the door open and bolt to the right, quickly out of view. Seeing her escape successfully, other women take off running toward the exit, but Hermione is already closest, and she wastes no time in beating them to it. Spencer sees her slam it shut with the flick of her wand, Hermione safely on the other side, and the pile of angry women banging on the door implies it’s not opening.

_…Hermione has locked us in._

_With hundreds of killer spiders._

And in that moment, Spencer realizes that Hermione may have been the villain all along.

The noise in the room falls away as Spencer’s world moves in slow motion. Off to her left, Corky falls to the ground, and Violet is trying unsuccessfully to beat away her girlfriend’s tiny attackers before she screams in pain and succumbs, herself. An inmate Spencer doesn’t recognize is on the ground twenty feet away with a dozen spiders on her neck, a river of blood trickling slowly from it. Any moment now, a tiny pair of fangs will find its way to Spencer’s ankle, and she’ll be paralyzed, unable to stop herself from being eaten alive. There are just too many of them. And now, there’s nowhere to run.

They’re all going to die in here in this stupid, smelly, cafeteria slash preschool. Because Hermione wants them to.

_But WHY?_

It just doesn’t make sense. Is Hermione working with DYAD somehow? Or with Sue? Has she been a double agent this entire time? Why wasn’t this revealed down in the lab? Is this why Hermione was so insistent that she wasn’t able to open the doors on the lower level, because she’d tried it before? What profit does she make from this massacre of inmates? And, possibly the most important question, how does Aphasia fit into all this? Has Hermione been playing her the whole time? Does she want no part of this war against Vee, so she’s rebelling against Aphasia’s decisions? Spencer’s been quite swept up in their epic romance, and now the illusion is being shattered. Hermione has left her true love to die.

But Aphasia’s not dead yet. In fact, she’s using her shotgun to pummel Vee across the face.

They’re trading blows in the eye of the storm, and Spencer doesn’t know if the fury in Aphasia’s eyes is all still from Vee or if Vee is just a convenient outlet with this most recent betrayal. Probably doesn’t matter. Aphasia looks like she’s going to kill her anyway, one way or another. Just, hopefully not with bullets. This whole space thing is too bad, because Spencer would really, really love to blast the shit out of some spiders.

“Give me the gun!” Spencer shouts, running over to her old cellmate. She ducks out of the way as they continue attacking each other, but Aphasia won’t give it up.

“Back the fuck off!”

Spencer gives the command again and kicks Vee in the leg for good measure.

Vee stumbles but regains her footing and glares at Spencer, annoyed.

“IT’S NOT LOADED, OKAY?” Aphasia says definitively and rears the gun back like a baseball bat, swinging hard and knocking Vee clean out on the floor with a solid hit to the skull. “I’m not stupid.”

_Oh._

“Hermione’s gone,” Spencer starts. “She locked—”

“She got a plan,” Aphasia says, stomping hard on several approaching spiders. She slams the butt of the gun on the ground to take out a few more and doesn’t appear to be concerned with anyone or anything else.

Spencer can’t stop for a moment to think about what that could mean – if Aphasia’s in on it or what – because everything is happening too fast. She tries to focus on the task at hand, but the river of creatures isn’t stopping. This is light years beyond that night in the cell when they came for Faith. This is even scarier than battling the giant one– Helena or whatever – because they’re everywhere at once. She’s in a sea of women, like a riot, screaming and cursing and running down a crowded street as they lash out all around them. This is war.

“Whoa! Hey!” a voice calls out behind her, and as Spencer turns, she sees everyone’s moving strangely now. Starbuck bumps into her, and Spencer lifts clear off the ground with the momentum and floats away. That’s when she realizes _everyone_ is floating. All the people, anyway. It takes a moment to confirm it, but sure enough, the spiders are staying on the ground.

A few inmates start laughing with glee, now several feet above the danger, and hold hands to keep each other close and safe. Spencer sees Ripley and the others start to push themselves out of the kitchen one by one, as the ceilings in the Mess Hall are at least ten feet higher. She calls out to Quinn and pushes off a table for leverage, sailing across the room and catching Quinn’s elbow with her right hand. It feels reminiscent of their first night of no gravity together when Spencer sailed across to Quinn and her heart never looked back. They spin together for a moment, no way to slow themselves down, before Spencer accidentally kicks Root in the face. They manage to get away before Root can retaliate or Shaw can come after them.

“You okay?” Quinn asks loudly over the noise, squeezing Spencer’s hand.

“Yeah. I think so.” Spencer sees Aphasia trying to hit the unconscious, hovering Vee again, but she can’t quite get contact. As she tries to lunge forward with nothing to brace against, she’s merely swinging in place. The harder she tries, the more ridiculous she looks.

Seeing the shotgun reminds Spencer of what Quinn has tucked safely away. “Don’t use the gun, okay?” she calls out. “Don’t let anyone know you have it.”

“What the hell’s going on?” Quinn shouts, looking around at the very bizarre scene.

“I don’t know,” Spencer calls back, and surveys the carnage herself. Prisoners are bouncing off each other, trying to maintain safe distance mid-air. The spiders have started climbing up the walls and making their way onto the ceiling. It looks like they’re unable to release whatever hold their tiny spindly feet have on the surface, though, and they’re left waiting for someone to drift close enough to climb on. For now, the inmates seem much safer than they were five minutes ago, but this it merely a stopgap until they can figure out a real solution. It can’t last.

Spencer and Quinn frantically look for some sign of what the hell they’re supposed to do next. The bodies of Nichols and Violet are caught under a nearby table, gradually disappearing under a net of moving black legs. Corky’s floating near the ceiling on the east side but not moving. It’s only a matter of time before a few spiders make their way over for a free meal. Suzanne is in a very strange floating fistfight with Aphasia, but neither’s able to put much force behind their punches, so it’s more of a face-shoving, hair-pulling match. Ripley and Vasquez are pushing off the ceiling to hit the floor with maximum force, but the spiders are moving away from the incoming feet before they can strike. Suddenly, Chloe O’Brian and Lexa cry out almost at the same time, one near the ceiling and one near the floor, reaching for various body parts in pain. Kat’s hiding behind the open door to the kitchen, crying. Some of the women are actively trying to fight, but the majority are too busy trying to stay afloat and arguing with each other. As inmates push off each other to reach higher ground, they send the other toward the ground. What began as a unified front is quickly disintegrating into Every Woman For Herself.

_“Stop killing them!”_

A distinctive voice pierces through the din. Spencer looks behind her to see who’s crazy enough to shout that, but she already knows the answer. It’s Lucy.

“You really think that’s going to work?” Clarke asks her as she swims through the air and mashes a spider against the ceiling with her fist. “What makes you think they understand us?”

“I’m not talking to _them_ ,” Lucy barks and punches Clarke in the jaw, sending them both spinning in midair. “Leave the spiders alone!” she shouts to various women in her vicinity, but no one’s buying what she’s selling, not even her so-called loyal followers. She’s a lot harder to take seriously when she’s back-flipping like a circus act.

Clarke recovers and reaches out to stop and steady Lucy, then pushes off toward the ground, where Spencer sees Lexa still fighting even after being bitten.

“Sorry, Luce,” Dark Willow says with a sincere shrug. “Look around. It’s them or us.” Holding her arms out, she aims her hands at the floor from fifteen feet above and lets a fireball rip. It whooshes through the room loudly and explodes, burning a small group of spiders to a crunchy, blackened crisp. But the strong threat makes the other scatter and move at a much more rapid speed than before, and now no one seems to be able to get the timing right to crush them. “Whoops.”

As inmates go crashing into the open kitchen area, the commotion knocks the various floating food stores into the open space of the battlefield. Cans and boxes scatter the air, getting in the way enough to become distractions, and as the occasional one gets ripped open by a swinging arm, bits of breakfast glop slowly find their way out of their containers. Aphasia tears away from her power struggle with Suzanne enough to chase after a more important target.

“MY WAFFLES!!”

Spencer hangs in mid-air, watching her friend struggle to catch the floating squares and hold them all in her tiny grasp. Eventually Aphasia realizes she can hold more in her mouth than her hands, and the bulk of the escaped waffles are saved from a most uncertain fate. If nothing else, Aphasia is ever loyal to what she loves most in this world.

Suddenly, there’s pounding on the door to the cafeteria. _“Let me in! I got help!”_

It’s Idgie. But there’s nothing they can do. Spencer knows there’s no getting around Hermione’s locking spell.

“Come on,” Quinn pulls on Spencer’s hand, “let’s get out of here.”

“She locked the door!”

“Not the way we came in!” Quinn reminds her, and Spencer suddenly feels very stupid. But even if they can make it out, are they going to leave their friends in here to die? Their options feel very limited. One thing’s for sure -- she’s not going to let go of Quinn’s hand until she absolutely has to.

Pushing off the ground, they float toward the door and catch the handle to steady themselves. Spencer calls out to Idgie, “Go around to the back! We’ll meet you there.”

Quinn and Spencer use the door to push off again, still hand in hand, and zoom past the crowds of inmates struggling to stay a safe distance from the floor and the ceiling. They pass over the counter they hid behind earlier and make their way toward the back door, but it’s already open.

And instead of Idgie coming through, it’s a buzzing swarm.

_Bees._

_Idgie went and got her BEES._

Spencer screams and flails her arms, batting them away from her face as they whiz by, as does Quinn. There’s a reason why Spencer avoided this class like the plague, and it was to keep out of situations just like this. Knives, Zombies, even Group Therapy – there are a lot of scary classes in this prison -- but none has shaken her to the core as much as the thought of motherfucking Bees.

As dozens of black and yellow winged beasts make their presence known, they begin terrorizing the inmates, who can’t seem to do anything but flail and scream just as Spencer had. Hovering in midair, the women have no leverage to get away other than to push off each other, which is only adding to the fear and frenzy.

Idgie comes floating in the back door, having brought up the rear of her battalion. She coasts right past Spencer to the window linking the rooms, and calls out after her swarm, “ATTACK THE SPIDERS!” She holds her arms out, pointing, as if they can understand. “DON’T HURT THE GIRLS! GO KILL THE SPIDERS!”

Spencer and Quinn are absolutely dumbfounded. Pulling on the counter to accelerate, Spencer comes up behind Idgie and screams in disbelief, “THAT’S NOT HOW BEES WORK.”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT,” Idgie retorts, arms held out wide.

But yeah, Spencer is pretty fucking sure she knows bees aren’t on _voice command_. You can’t train them like dogs to heel and fetch and bite burglars in the balls. And even if Idgie were some kind of bee charmer, they don’t eat spiders. If anything, it’s the other way around. There is no helping to be done here. The ensuing chaos is, unfortunately, proving Spencer’s right. Her friends, enemies, and everyone in between are freaking the fuck out, slapping away at bees and screaming obscenities as they get stung, while the spiders are going largely ignored by all.

Tastee’s got one stuck in her hair that she can’t get out. Octavia is trying to smash a bee by clapping her hands around it, and she learns a painful lesson when she finally catches it. Spencer sees someone she doesn’t recognize, then realizes it’s Sophia – she’s removed her wig and is swinging around like nunchucks.

River Tam, meanwhile, is floating upside down slowly, making air-angels without a care in the world. At one point, she pauses to reach out and catch a bee with a precise, jabbing pinch of her forefinger and thumb. Her speed and technique are unlike any Spencer’s ever seen. River brings the bee close to her face, examining it, then lets it go and watches it fly away.

The various couples are trying to find each other in the swarm, like pushing through the winds of a tornado. The only saving grace, Spencer realizes, is that the bees aren’t nearly as numerous as the spiders, so hopefully the women will be able to eradicate them soon. Still, Idgie only made a bad situation worse.

“How did you possibly think this would help?!” Spencer calls out.

Quinn comes up next to her and looks out cautiously, hiding as much of her body behind the counter as she can. They don’t want to give away their position to the spider army, or the other inmates, for that matter. There’s a lot of scary shit out there. But Spencer feels less cowardly knowing Quinn’s not thrilled by this latest development either.

“They always do what I say!” Idgie insists, looking out at what she’s brought on everyone. “STOP STINGING THE PEOPLE! GODDAMNIT!” She slams her hand on the counter, on the verge of frustrated tears, then turns back to Spencer. “Well, hey, what the hell have you done to help, huh? At least I’m not just hiding in the kitchen! You high-class, hoity-toity girls can’t even stand the sight o’ bugs.” She’s masking her embarrassment in bravado, just like Hanna used to do. “At least I DID something.”

“I knew not to bring A SWARM OF BEES!” Spencer shouts.

An older inmate named Lucille Bluth stands nearby, calmly looking at the madness around them. She shakes her head and says with a grim expression, “They don’t allow you to have bees in here.”

 But Spencer knows Idgie is trying, at least, and she’s right – there has to be something Spencer can do.

“Where’s Aphasia?” Quinn asks Spencer over the noise.

She peeks over the edge to look for the hair-pullers in the middle of the room, and sure enough, Aphasia and Suzanne are still going at it. They’re both sporting quite the new styles by now, and their uniforms are ripped in various places. Spencer calls out Aphasia’s name before motioning for her to come over.

Begrudgingly, Aphasia pushes Suzanne away hard and uses the force to propel herself toward the kitchen window. “Crazy bitch,” she says as she gets some distance. She starts to fix her hair then suddenly curses and swats at a bee that lands on her chest with way more hand motions than are required to shoo it along. It’s like she’s having some kind of fit.

Spencer holds out a hand for Aphasia to grab as she makes her way over and pulls her friend into the safe zone. They’re all squatting and holding onto the steel racks under the window, with about a foot of space between the floor and their shoes. Their faces are level with rows and rows of red, yellow, and green plastic trays, bouncing slowly up and down in the zero-gravity of their slotted compartments. It’s weird seeing all the kitchen utensils and cans and dishware moving around freely like that _Fantasia_ bit where Mickey tries to clean up the house and it all goes to shit. That cartoon scarred Spencer as a child. Using your intelligence to get ahead and then having it all go to hell without any ability to regain control…it really fucked with her head. From time to time, she still has stray visions of being buried alive by her textbooks.

On the plus side, the kitchen isn’t actively trying to drown them.

Aphasia steadies herself and looks at the three women in turn with a panicked expression. “What the hell is all that! That bee just bit my fuckin’ titty!”

“They didn’t want to hurt anybody!” Idgie snarls defensively. “They never sting me!”

 _You sound like Lucy_ , Spencer thinks.

“THAT BEE JUST BIT MY FUCKIN’ TITTY,” Aphasia hollers back, weaving her head back and forth as she snakes closer to Idgie’s face. “MAYBE I’LL GO BITE IT BACK.”

Idgie’s face is on fire. “MAYBE YOU SHOULD BITE MY ASS INSTEAD,” she rages.

“Okay, okay, whoa.” Spencer tries to calm them both down, but she only has one free hand to hold out between them. She reaches across Aphasia’s chest to hold her back as Quinn holds Idgie’s shoulder and tells her to let the issue go. Looking to Idgie, Spencer says, “Maybe you should go out there and keep trying to control your little friends. Okay? We’ll get some more help. Actual, real help.”

“Fine,” Idgie replies with plenty of Southern attitude, making a face at Aphasia. Then she moves to find the right angle and pushes off the floor like it’s the deep end of a swimming pool. Rocketing out the window into the cafeteria, she screams, “TAWANDA!!” like some bizarre battle cry.

Spencer hasn’t met an inmate named Tawanda, but she hopes she and Idgie are happy together.

“Don’t worry about her,” Quinn says to Aphasia.

Squeezing Aphasia’s shoulder, Spencer refocuses her attention on her friend. “We’re going to kill the bees, okay? We will kill all the goddamn bees,” she says, looking into Aphasia’s eyes. “And the spiders.”

“And Vee,” Aphasia says definitively.

Spencer hesitates. “Still on the table,” she offers. “But we need weapons. Do you have _anything_ else under your bed?”

There’s that familiar, irritated face again. “You ain’t stole enough from me today? You know I’m still mad.”

“Please just go get them.” Spencer gives her most empathetic, desperate expression. “It worked, right? We got Quinn back.”

“Despite the fact that I was coming back in four hours anyway,” Quinn says vaguely, mumbled by the cigarette now between her lips. She digs her Zippo out of her bra and lights it; the exhaled smoke moves strangely in the lack of gravity.

“We got her back early and safely,” Spencer reminds Aphasia, “all thanks to you. And now you get to be the hero again by saving all of those people.” The angry commotion in the next room comes into sharp focus. Spencer quickly adds, “Except maybe Vee, who is terrible and deserves whatever happens to her.”

Aphasia rolls her eyes with a sigh and tuts, annoyed. “You a real piece of work, Saltine,” she says as she pushes off the counter, sailing through the cloud of smoke toward the back door. It’s still wide open, and Spencer’s keen to close it before a third plague of venomous animals can come bursting in. At this point, she wouldn’t be surprised if locusts rained down on them. On the plus side, closing the door now ensures that the spiders will be contained to this space. Unfortunately, so will the bees. But it’s the best they can do.

As Aphasia reaches the doorway, Spencer calls out, “Hurry,” but her voice is drowned out by the sea of voices in the cafeteria. Seeing her friends…well, acquaintances, swatting helplessly against the many tiny critters all around them, Spencer has an idea. One at a time, she starts pulling the plastic lunch trays out of the rack and hurling them like Frisbees into the cafeteria. “Lexa! Shaw! You guys! Use these like shields!” Quinn starts helping her once she catches on, and soon the entire battalion of inmates is defensively armed. However, most of the women don’t seem to understand how to use a shield to protect their faces and are instead just thwacking the bees and spiders with the trays like Hell’s flyswatters. It’s slow going and the squishing noises are terrible, but they’re at least making headway. Jessica Huang’s kicking ass with a meat grinder and a rolling pin, shield be damned.

Suddenly, Spencer hears a loud _clang!_ from beyond the back door. Releasing the counter, she and Quinn follow Aphasia’s path and peer out into the hall cautiously. It’s Hermione, and her wand is pointed at the garbage chute. “It’s jammed shut, permanently. I made sure they were all out. And none escaped through the door on the other side. If we can keep them in here and kill them, it could finally be the end once and for all.”

Spencer sighs in a moment of relief. Hermione is still on her side. Of all the people on this ship to be fighting against, someone with an arsenal of magic may be the scariest adversary of all.

“I knew you cut the gravity,” Aphasia says proudly, and pushes forward against the door frame hard to fly right into Hermione, kissing her with one hand on her cheek. It’s brief but tender and passionate. “You always could find a g-spot.”

Hermione blushes and rolls her eyes at the cheesy comment with a soft groan. “Yes, you’re very clever.”

“Weapons?” Spencer prompts awkwardly, all too aware of the fact that Quinn’s hand feels sweaty in hers. “People are dying?”

“Go,” Hermione says to Aphasia. “It’ll be faster than if I get them one at a time from here.”

“Get what from here?” Spencer asks, but she’s ignored.

Quinn says to Aphasia, “I need a can of hairspray.”

“Cool.” Aphasia turns back to Hermione, kissing her one more time with a hand on her cheek. After a few seconds, she pulls away and uses the latch from the chute to push off, disappearing around the corner.

Spencer looks at Quinn and asks dryly, “You’re worried about your hair right now?” The fact that Quinn’s hair looks great despite the day’s events is irrelevant.

Her non-girlfriend returns the judgmental glare, eyebrow up, and reaches into her bra, withdrawing her Zippo.

_OH._

“Stay alert,” Hermione says to Spencer and Quinn. “I put a Repelling Spell on the window behind you so the spiders wouldn’t follow you out, but it’s still a good idea to watch to be sure they don’t escape. It only works on small objects, and many of the spiders are quite large.”

“So, we just guard the door?” Spencer asks, clinging to the frame four feet above the ground. “That’s your plan? We have to _do_ something.”

“I am,” Hermione replies condescendingly. “You’re floating, aren’t you?” She lets that sit for a beat and then adds with some attitude, “You might want to duck.” Extending her wand toward the open hallway, she cries out, _“Accio dodgeballs!”_

Spencer frowns, confused, and Quinn doesn’t seem to get it either. But about six seconds later, a red rubber ball comes flying around the corner and almost takes Spencer’s head off as it zooms past, crashing into the food shelf through the open door. Spencer lets go of Quinn to shield her face from the onslaught. “Jesus!”

Another, then another, and another. Yellow balls, green, blue, more red, a few black ones. At least twenty dodgeballs fly into the kitchen without warning. Once she has recovered from the blinding fear of the incoming assault, Spencer recognizes them from one of the gyms they searched earlier today.

“That should do it, don’t you think?” Hermione says, still sounding superior.

Spencer wants to fire back with attitude, but the truth is, this was in fact a pretty excellent idea. “Come on,” she says to Quinn, reaching out to retake her hand and head back inside. The balls are wreaking havoc on the kitchen, bouncing wildly without gravity to slow them down and destroying everything in their path, but Spencer and Quinn are able to redirect them one at a time into the cafeteria.

“HEY!” Spencer calls into the war zone. “WHAT DO YOU SAY WE KILL THESE FU--” She takes an orange dodgeball right to the face, painfully interrupting her battle cry with a stinging smack, and Spencer can only take a steadying breath and chalk her new bruise up to the kind of day she’s been having.


	60. War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

The rubber balls bounce loudly off the walls, and when a few inmates stop shoving each other to see what the commotion’s all about, they gradually all take notice of the new equipment that’s entered the ring.

Tastee says, “Oh, _hell_ yes,” and shoves past Sarah Connor to get a blue one, then reaches it above her head and slams it down toward the floor as hard as she can. It bounces, then propels back up toward the ceiling, smooshing a spider lurking there, and continues to bop back and forth like a pinball, still undeterred by the lack of gravity, though it eventually hits Shay in the back of the head and changes course entirely.

Most of the other women quickly realize the strength of their new armory and push to reach the nearest dodgeball, though it’s hard to get there. Soon, no less than a dozen prisoners are armed and slamming rubber balls from floor to ceiling, punching errant shots in new directions and sending the scared spiders and frantic bees scattering. Dark Willow continues to sling fireballs toward the ground, not holding anything back. Spencer sees Johanna is quite the dodgeball wizard, as is Alice. Both women seem very comfortable in large arena warfare. River Tam has integrated the sports element into her floating _killet_ routine, and she’s making quick work of eliminating spiders by using calculated geometry and spin moves to maximize her attack from the near corner. Quinn, however, seems to be the most excited by the addition of dodgeballs, and is hurling them overhanded with a lion’s roar.

The scene is now as loud and chaotic as ever, but the inmates have regained control as they sling fastballs this way and that, shouting war cries and counts of kills. Spencer barely hears the clanging of the 7pm dinner bell over all the screaming.  The entire cafeteria is a battle zone, though it’s unclear who’s winning. It’s unlike anything Spencer’s ever seen. PE was never like this back home.

Then, there’s a blast of bright red light zooming past her, over and over, and Spencer sees Hermione’s back with them, firing her Stupefy spell or whatever it is.

“Here,” Aphasia calls loudly to Spencer from behind, and Spencer turns to see Aphasia soaring toward her slowly. Her arms are loaded up with somehow even more weapons. A large mace. A giant axe. What could be…a tranquilizer gun? A sword that looks like Excalibur itself, one more gun that Spencer can’t recognize, the hairspray for Quinn, and a giant green butt plug. Aphasia’s only barely holding on to everything, and Spencer knows there’s no way Aphasia could’ve carried them all with the gravity on.

Quinn sails over and slides the aerosol can out of the mix in a smooth motion as her momentum carries her away. “Got it.” She shakes it vigorously as she nears the far corner of the room, then withdraws her lighter and holds it up. There’s a cluster of spiders taking on what appears to be a “safety in numbers” strategy, but Quinn’s not scared to take them on herself. Flicking the Zippo wheel, she fires the spray into the open flame and is instantly sent flying backward in a spinning somersault from the kickback. In the opposite direction, however, a circular tunnel of fire carries into the corner and strikes the spider herd directly as tiny squeals of pain mix into the smoke cloud.

“Quinn!” Spencer cries out, but she can’t get there in time. Fortunately, Clarke happens to be in Quinn’s direct path, and they collide without injury, slowing Quinn down enough to allow her to get her bearings and hook the nearby arm of Idgie.

But Idgie immediately slaps at Quinn’s reach, shouting, “DON’T YOU TOUCH ME, BEE KILLER!” As her body freely rotates in the air, Idgie looks out at the open room with tears in her eyes, “I’M GONNA KILL YOU ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!”

A few women nearby hear the battle cry and yell back in support, not realizing the intent.

Weapons still in hand, Quinn recenters herself upright and looks around for another potential target. She gives Spencer a smile as she catches her eye.

Spencer, meanwhile, still hasn’t selected a weapon of her own, and Aphasia’s looking ever the more impatient. Even now when it’d be technically weightless, she’s not sure she wants something heavy like a sword. If she can’t control her momentum, she could accidentally slice Quinn in half with no way to stop herself. Besides, it hardly seems like appropriate (or effective) gear for fighting a spider. None of this does, except maybe Quinn’s makeshift flamethrower. Spencer’d love to have her sledgehammer right now. It’d be great in zero gravity.

“You didn’t have any bug spray?” Spencer asks. She’s only half kidding.

“Shut the fuck up and take something,” Aphasia says, arms still full. When Spencer reaches for the mystery gun, Aphasia pulls back and tightens her hold on it, saying with fiery eyes, “That’s mine.”

Spencer considers her options and doesn’t like any of them. She’s pretty worried about collateral damage from friendly fire based on the selection. She’ll behead a friend with that giant axe before she’ll behead a spider. Or get beheaded herself when someone else takes it.

“Hurry up!” Aphasia says, and a yellow dodgeball blindsides her right across the face. The mace slips out of her grasp from the jostle, but Spencer’s able to reach out and grab it before it floats too far away, tucking it back into an open slot inside Aphasia’s right elbow. Aphasia closes her eyes and exhales, trying to contain her rage, and Spencer knows she’s got to make a choice before she’s the one who gets axed.

Reaching forward, she grabs the item that she calculates could inflict the most damage to the spiders while presenting the lowest potential risk to her peers and to herself. The large flared base of the butt plug, maybe three inches in diameter, is caught behind the staff of the giant axe, and she has to wiggle it hard to coax it out. When it comes loose, Spencer holds the shaft in her fist and raises it by her head in attacking position.

_Sure, this’ll do._

“You weird,” Aphasia mutters, shaking her head.

“You brought it!” Spencer fires back, holding the toy forward in protest, but it doesn’t make it any less awkward. She really doesn’t want to think about where this might have been.

Aphasia shoves the other weapons back toward the kitchen with a single releasing motion, but they instead float off in entirely different directions, thankfully not harming anyone at low speed. She’s holding on to her strange black gun with the giant pod sticking out of the top. It looks semi-automatic, but Spencer hasn’t seen one quite like it before. Not that she’s an arms dealer or anything, but she’s watched a lot of mob movies. Well, _Toby_ watched a lot of mob movies and Spencer pretended to care. And she knows, like with the shotgun, that anything with actual bullets is a Bad Idea on a spaceship.

“Do you really thi—” she starts, but she’s cut off by the sharp, loud rapid fire Aphasia’s aiming at the ceiling.

Looking up to see just how quickly the air they have is going to be vented out into space, Spencer sees no holes at all – just splatters of pink and orange on the ceiling, covering what must be the shriveled bodies of dead spiders.

It’s a paintball gun.

“TAKE THAT, MOTHERFUCKERS!” Aphasia shouts, letting another long string of pellets fly like she’s John McClane. She’s missing more spiders than she’s hitting, but as they try to run away, they’re slowing down in the paint, and errant dodgeballs are finishing the job. As the balls bounce back and hit the inmates, everything and everyone is slowly being marked with fluorescent paint. The ones that manage to evade the shots are tracking tiny blue and yellow footprints all over the ceiling.

With Aphasia covering the upper targets, Spencer looks downward toward the floor. She fumbles her way toward the nearest table and finds a place to hold on that isn’t covered in spiders. Fingers wrapped tightly around the shaft of the green buttplug, she aims the large flared base toward the ground and slams downward, smashing several in one strong motion. It’s a surprisingly effective weapon, and she makes quick work of mashing all the beasts within her reach into mush.

After Spencer clears the immediate area, she works her way down the bench toward the other end and continues killing there. A purple dodgeball smacks her right on the ass, and Regina slams into her floating legs at one point, but otherwise she’s able to carry out her task mostly without disruption. It seems like endless work, killing a few at a time of what must be a thousand, and her arm is getting tired quickly, but she’s making progress. Every crushing blow gets her one step closer to her end goal.

Spencer wants every single one of these little black bastards to die.

There’s a sharp pain on her right ankle, and Spencer slaps at it hard. The dead bee falls out of her pant leg to the floor.

Yep, Spencer’s gonna kill all of those little fuckers, too.

Then, with a deafening _clang!_   the giant axe crashes down on the table just inches from her face. She screams and flails in midair, trying to scramble away from the deadly weapon, and looks up to see who’s holding it.

It’s Lucy.

Again.

“WHAT THE FUCK,” Spencer screams, pushing against the bench with her foot to launch herself up toward the ceiling, and her legs barely escape the lateral follow-up swing. She has to quickly redirect herself out of the range of Aphasia’s rapid fire, but Spencer’s more concerned with keeping her limbs than ruining her uniform. That is, until three paintballs hit her in the thigh. “OW!”

Lucy pushes off the ground and soars up toward Spencer, rage in her eyes and battle axe in hand, rearing back to strike again. “STOP. KILLING. THEM!” she cries and swings the axe around as hard as she can, but it’s slow enough that Spencer is just able to get back enough in time. She catches an orange dodgeball that’s heading in her direction and uses an overhead motion to launch it right at Lucy’s face, successfully striking hard.

Lucy screams and releases the axe to cover her nose with both hands. A few drops of blood slip through her open fingers; it’s probably broken. Spencer uses the opportunity to kick at the floating axe, catching the flat side of the blade with her heel and sending it away from her assailant. Then, she pushes off the ceiling as hard as she can to get the fuck away from the injured mass-murderer. Spencer’s just slugged the proverbial hornet’s nest with a baseball bat – _which would be really great to have right now_ – and she can only pray that Lucy will back off and not seek vengeance.

It’s unlikely.

As Spencer moves toward the front entrance, she sees she wasn’t Lucy’s first target. There’s a headless body floating nearby -- god only knows who. One of the Sarah Connors is sliced in half across the midsection on the other side of the room. As flying dodgeballs hit the split torso, guts and blood are pushed out into the air, floating in strange, gelatinous puddles. Spencer’s heart races and saddens simultaneously. She knows Lucy values the lives of animals above humans, but she never thought she’d go so far as to attack the other inmates the same way she took out the guards. They’ve been through a lot together, for better or worse, and – isn’t Spencer supposedly on Lucy’s side? So much for team loyalty.

Lucy catches up to her weapon and locates Spencer in the madness of flying colored balls and paint splatter. The distance between them is closing fast, and Spencer can only grab on to the limbs of nearby inmates hovering near her to propel herself away. Then, she hears someone yell, _“EXPELLIARMUS!”_  and the axe goes flying out of Lucy’s hands in the opposite direction, hitting the wall with a crash and bouncing off. Just as quickly, there’s a loud _“STUPEFY!”_  and Lucy’s zapped unconscious before she’s aware of what’s happening.

Hermione soars over and grabs Lucy’s arm before she can float away. She aims the wand at Lucy’s face and says, _“Episkey_.”

For a moment, Spencer wonders what kind of terrible thing Hermione’s just done to her, but the blood quickly recedes into the nose on its own and there’s the slightest shifting of cartilage under the skin. Lucy’s nose is healed, just like that.

It’s totally fucking bizarre.

Hermione then asks, “Are you all right?” When she doesn’t get a response from the dumbfounded Spencer, she adds, a bit testily, “There’s no reason to just let her bleed.”

Spencer swallows and nods, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” even though she’s honestly the furthest thing from fine. Another stray dodgeball clips her in the shoulder to remind her of that. She manages to add, “Thanks,” before wiping nervous tears from her eyes with her free hand. Her right one is still clutching the sweaty, gut-covered buttplug with a trembling grip.

“I’ll take her home,” Hermione says to Spencer as she starts swimming over to Lucy. She looks around at the madness and adds, “Finish this. Please.” In a moment, they’re out of sight in the direction of the back door.

Another of Dark Willow’s fireballs blazes past, mere feet from where Spencer’s floating. Tastee, Poussey, and Suzanne seem to have found the weapons Aphasia discarded, and the loud clang of the axe and mace against the floor fall in rhythm with the battle cries of the other survivors. A few dodgeballs are still crossing the room, though they’re moving more slowly now as the women are running out of energy. And from the looks of it, there might not be many spiders left, though it’s hard to tell from this angle. Maybe they’re all dead, or maybe the inmates have just given up.

But it doesn’t matter either way. Spencer’s numb. She can’t hear the buzzing of the bees anymore, but it could just be that her ears are ringing too loud. Her body and mind are completely spent and past their breaking point. She aches all over, she’s weak and scared and _tired_. Everything hurts. She hangs in midair for what must be several minutes, though she’s having trouble tracking time. It occurs to her that she may have been bitten at some point; it doesn’t come as a surprise. Spencer’s no stranger to the disorienting effects of the venom. Frankly, some sleep sounds fucking lovely right about now.

And then, without warning, Spencer falls five feet to the ground, banging her knee on the edge of a cafeteria table before slamming to the floor. Her cry of pain matches the others around the room and the thunderous sound of falling corpses and clanging weapons. The dodgeballs bounce a few times and roll away harmlessly under the benches. Not that she isn’t grateful for all the help and great ideas today, but Spencer wishes Hermione’d had the decency of giving her a goddamn heads up before restoring the gravity. Rubbing her tender knee, Spencer sits up and tries to acclimate to the blood flowing through her body properly once more.

“Did we get ‘em?” Someone asks from the other side of the room, maybe Tastee.

No one answers but everyone looks around, surveying the battlefield. It’s very quiet and still for a moment.

“I think so?” Poussey says cautiously. She’s the first one to try to stand up, and she wobbles a bit, holding onto the closest table, but she manages to get her footing.

Clarke rises next and stamps one more spider with her left heel. “Yeah.”

Everyone quietly looks around the room, a little uncertain.

“Wait!” Suzanne shouts, pointing at the back wall, and Aphasia fires off a stream of paint bullets in a massive display of overkill.

All fall silent again. Then, Ripley says, “I see one,” and picks up a nearby yellow dodgeball, firing unsuccessfully, but the still living Sarah Connor is on the rebound. “There,” Ripley says definitively. “Now we can—”

Shaw stomps hard on one crawling across the bench, then sits down without a word.

“Hang on,” Starbuck says, moving toward the back corner of the room where a critter is crawling up the wall.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Rosa Diaz says, rolling her eyes. Shay leans over exhaustedly to rest her hands on her knees.

Starbuck squashes what is hopefully the final spider with her shoe, smearing neon paint on the already ruined wall. One by one, the survivors slowly get on their unsteady feet. Of the fifty or so inmates onboard, it looks like most of them made it through, but it’s hard to ignore the dozen or so bodies littering the cafeteria. Then again, only time would tell if they were truly all dead. Spencer sees Vee face down across a table in the back of the room, just as Suzanne sees her and runs over to check her pulse and tend to her. Spencer selfishly hopes Vee never wakes up. Something about that woman just doesn’t sit right with her.

Covered head to toe in paint and spider guts, friends and cellmates begin to find each other and offer handshakes, high fives, hugs, and playful shoulder punches. Poussey and Tastee are reenacting their finest battle moves and laughing, while Ripley and Vasquez appear to be celebrating in a more…hands-on way on the table behind Rosa Diaz. Clarke runs over to help Suzanne care for Vee, removing the uniform from a nearby corpse and bundling it like a pillow under Vee’s head. Root is examining Lexa’s bitten ankle, somewhat against the will of the patient, it seems, and Quinn has taken on the gruesome task of matching up halves of sliced bodies, aided by a seriously grossed out Kat.

Aphasia approaches Spencer and points toward the door with her thumb, “I’m gonna…” then takes off running in the same direction Hermione left with Lucy moments ago.

Spencer nods, then resumes taking inventory of the room. The earlier tension from the rivalry is gone, replaced by the bond of women who survived a battle together. But then she hears the familiar sound of sniffling behind her, and her eyes fall closed in the memory of the women who saw their end in this horrible way. She turns to see Big Boo wiping her face with her forearm, not taking her eyes off the mangled body of Nichols stuck between the legs of a cafeteria table.

“I’m gonna fucking kill whoever is responsible for this,” Boo says to her dead friend, sniffing hard between breaths. “Somebody’s gonna fucking die.”

She’s not the only one in tears. Idgie’s so upset that all her bees were murdered that she screams a string of sobbing, incoherent expletives and storms out of the room. “SCREW ALL OF YOU!”

Shay watches her go and then looks back at the concerned faces near her. “She’ll be fine.”

“What was all that, anyway?” Poussey asks the room as she smears some paint on her jumpsuit. “Space spiders?”

“I’ve seen them before,” Clarke says. “They came after us one night.”

Spencer whips around. How did she not know that someone else had seen them? But then, she barely knows Clarke at all and has never even spoken to her before now. Maybe Spencer should have conducted interviews with the prisoners before mounting her assault to get Quinn back. Too late now. “What happened?”

“They wanted me,” Octavia says, tightening her grip around Aphasia’s mace. “They came in the night. We killed them all.”

“Apparently, you didn’t,” Tastee taunts.

“The fuck do you know?” Octavia fires back, and the room quickly dissolves into petty argument again between the two sides. So much for their post-war peace period.

A few women start pushing and shoving, sliding in the paint and scrapping awkwardly. Most everyone seems too tired to put much force behind it, other than Shaw, who just walks around the room silently punching people for no apparent reason other than she likes it.

Over the sound of cursing and insults, Spencer hears Vasquez say, _“What’s she doing here?”_

Turning to look, Spencer sees Becky’s face peering through the window in the back of the cafeteria. The girl says, “Oh _shit!”_  and then quickly ducks back out of sight.

_Wasn’t she supposed to be locked up down in the lab?_

Vasquez looks at Ripley, and they both take off running after Becky with Spencer right on their tail.


	61. Long Live the Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It takes less than half a lap around the perimeter hallway for Ripley to catch up to Becky. Reaching out her hand, she grabs Becky’s hair and yanks her to the ground as the girl lets out a horrible scream and a string of expletives that stops Spencer in her tracks. The pitter-patter of more footsteps behind them echoes, then Quinn appears beside Spencer. Ripley pins Becky’s arms behind her back and holds her steady as her partner approaches.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Vasquez asks Sue’s assistant. “How’d you get out?”

“Why aren’t you DEAD?” Becky fires back angrily. “You should all be spider food by now!”

Spencer steps up next to Vasquez. “You know about the spiders?”

“You’re such an idiot, _Bee-stings_ ,” Becky says with a scowl. “Go back to Rosegood and fuck your girlfriend’s chainsaw until you’re DEAD!”

Spencer doesn’t know how to respond to that.

Becky resumes her conversation with Vasquez but is no less condescending. “Of course, I know about the spiders, dumbass. THEY’RE MY SPIDERS. I’m the spider BOSS, BITCH.”

Some spit sprays across Spencer’s face with those last two words, but she’s much more bothered by the mental image of two words coming back to haunt her.

**_QUEEN B_ **

It was never Beth or even the Beyoncé shark outside.

It was Becky. It was always Becky.

Working side by side with Sue in the lab, she must’ve had access to this secret project the whole time. Maybe Sue knew about it, maybe she didn’t. But Becky’s always had free reign to move around the prison, so she could easily be behind this. Spencer can’t believe she didn’t consider her a suspect earlier.

“Vee’s gonna come for me any second now, so WATCH YOUR BACK, BITCHES,” Becky shouts.

Vasquez, Spencer, and Ripley exchange worried glances. “You work for Vee?” Spencer asks. “I thought you worked for Sue.”

“KEEP UP, BEANSTALK. WE’RE IN CHARGE HERE NOW.” Becky pulls hard against Ripley’s grip, but she’s severely outmatched. Paint is getting all over Becky’s back and hair as she struggles. Her glasses are slipping down her nose, and her forehead is red and showing tiny beads of sweat. Even with that scowl, she’s not nearly as intimidating as she probably thinks she is. It doesn’t help that she’s a full foot shorter than most of the women standing around her.

“We?” Spencer balks. “You and Vee.” It seems…unlikely.

“You bet your flat ass!” Becky fires back. “She promised if I helped take out some of you losers, I’d be the new boss with her. Sue can suck it. I’M NOBODY’S BITCH!”

“Clearly,” Spencer agrees. “Well, then it’s a good thing Vee’s dead. Now you’re in charge all by yourself.” She crosses her arms.

“She’s –” Quinn starts, but Spencer holds up a quieting hand.

Becky’s eyes bulge. “Vee’s DEAD?”

“You didn’t see her on the table in there?” Spencer points back behind them. “Your spiders ate half her leg.” It’s a bluff, but it’ll probably work, so long as her friends continue to stay quiet. And with no power player to hide behind, Becky’s going to break.

Or, she was supposed to. Instead, her face lights up with pure joy. “Seriously?! That’s AWESOME! Now I get to run this place myself!” Becky looks around her, as if admiring her vast new domain. “And now _you’ll_ work for ME!” It seems lost on her that she’s hardly in any shape or position to do such a thing. Her glasses are falling off her sweaty face, and the more she struggles against Ripley’s grip, the more she winces at the pain.

Spencer looks around, meeting the eyes of the various other inmates to see if anyone is buying an ounce of this giant load of crap. Doesn’t look like there are any takers. “So, boss,” she offers, “tell us about how you got started on this journey to prison leadership. Rumor has it you’re the one who airlocked Jenny Schecter.”

There’s a smattering if inhales and murmurs and stray comments from the peanut gallery covering a wide range of emotions. Spencer assumes the ones who sound sad are just jealous they didn’t get to do it themselves.

“Yeah!” Becky announces proudly.

Spencer pauses awkwardly, waiting for a tale to unravel. After five seconds of silence, she gives up and says, “Right, ok then. There you have it.”

It’s not the thrilling confessional moment she expected, but Spencer’s just glad to have this murder mystery wrapped up neatly once and for all. Because no matter how this whole mess plays out with the spiders and the clones and everything, it would’ve been absolute bullshit for Jenny Schecter to have been dead this entire time and for no one to ever find out who really killed her. Just shoddy storytelling, really.

Reflecting on the Jenny situation, though, Spencer adds, “Who knew about that? Just you and Sue?”

“And Jenny,” Becky adds, laughing at her own joke.

“And I bet you told your spiders all about it,” Spencer says, contributing to the grand narrative. “So they knew you were powerful and should be obeyed.”

“Just like _you’re_ going to be obeying ME!” Becky cries out, fighting against Ripley’s hold.

Spencer can picture Becky bursting into some secret room in the lab full of spiders, and jumping up and down as she screams, _“I killed Jenny Schecter! I killed Jenny Schecter!”_  It’s a weird image, but it fits. Her late pet Elizabeth proved spiders of that intelligence level could write down things they’d heard, after all. After Becky’s excited proclamation, these evil ones came to send a warning to Jenny’s cellmates. But now they’re dead, and Becky’s going to get what’s coming to her. Justice for all.

Vasquez steps forward and leans down close to Becky’s face. “You’re not in charge here, shitstain. You’re gonna follow Schecter right out the airlock after I squash you like a fucking bug.”

“Oh yeah? Just try it, rug muncher!” Becky kicks her foot toward Vasquez but misses by quite a large margin. The move sends her glasses to the floor, cracking one lens.

Vasquez steps soundly on the frames and twists her foot, destroying them quite thoroughly. “Oops.”

Squinting and frowning, Becky shakes her head angrily. Spencer’s still trying to piece together exactly how this all went down. Not the Jenny part, but the rest of it. The gaps in the sequence that led to a pile of dead girls at the bottom of a garbage chute. But before Spencer can press further, she hears people approaching up ahead, behind Ripley, and sure enough she sees inmates trickling around the corner that must have exited the cafeteria -- Shaw, Lexa, Regina, Starbuck, Alice, and more, at least two dozen women. They look somewhat lost, unsure of where to go. But they’re heading in her direction, now that they see there’s something happening.

“This looks fun,” Root says playfully. She and the others stop a few feet back, wary of getting in the way of whatever Ripley is doing to Becky.

“Where’s Lucy?” Dark Willow asks, sounding quite concerned.

“She’s taking a time-out,” Spencer replies. She’s not the least bit sympathetic after Lucy tried to slice her in half. The uncomfortable shifting and murmurs of the crowd shows this answer isn’t acceptable, so she needs a distraction. Fast. “But Becky here was just explaining to us how she helped Vee kill all those inmates in the Mess Hall,” Spencer says.

Big Boo steps forward with a blaze of rage in her eyes. “OH REALLY,” she asks, and then charges at Becky, reaching out to strangle her.

Vasquez moves in quickly and manages to pull Boo off Becky for the most part, then Shaw joins in to help. Spencer’s half-inclined to just let them duke it out Fight Club style, but she does need whatever information Becky’s holding first. Probably.

“Tell us what you did for for Vee,” Spencer says.

“Suck my tits!” Becky cries.

But Spencer isn’t deterred. “If you don’t have any useful information, I guess we don’t need you alive.” She looks around and offers to the group, “Anybody want dibs?”

The whole circle around them closes in a step or two, and Becky changes her tune immediately. “I unlocked the doors! Vee told me who she wanted dead, and I let the spiders out and showed them who to kill and opened the door.”

“They can’t just crawl through the bars?” Tastee asks, like Becky’s an idiot.

“Yeah, but their victim can’t,” Spencer tells her. “The spiders took advantage of zero gravity to float their victim out.”

“Damn,” Tastee concedes, “that’s smart.”

Rosa Diaz asks, “The guards never noticed a girl floating down the hallway?”

Something Spencer’s been wondering, herself.

“DUH,” Becky says. “They weren’t there.”

“Where were they?” Spencer asks. If the inmates had ever been left unattended, other than this afternoon’s Code Pink, this is news to her.

“They were too busy playing their stupid Code Red dodgeball tournament!” From Becky’s tone, she’s clearly harboring some resentment about this.

“Dodgeball?” Regina asks.

“In gym 8?” Spencer remembers seeing a set-up in there that looked fairly recent, and it must be where Hermione summoned the equipment from.

Maritza raises a hand anxiously. “Oh, I got a doctor’s note saying I have to sit out from all high-impact activities.” She looks at Flaca and says, “I spent way too long on these nails.”

“Word,” she replies.

“You don’t get to play!” Becky yells at her. “It’s for employees ONLY.”

“This is an ongoing thing? Every Shark Week?” Spencer asks.

Becky scowls again. “While you losers are busy bleeding all over yourselves, Raven turns off the gravity and we get to have some real fun. My team is only twenty points behind Buffy’s team. That’s why I’m so mad they don’t let me play anymore!”

Spencer has no choice but to keep following this trail. “Why not?”

Becky’s face falls and her voice quiets down. “I threw up one time from spinning too much. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.” Then, the fire returns as she cries, “But I’m a dodgeball _champion!_  I could take everybody out in five seconds! I keep telling Sue to put me back in, but she says it’s not safe.”

 _“Sue_ is there?” Spencer says.

“She’s the referee, dummy!” Becky scrunches her nose, trying to adjust her glasses, but it’s futile. “All the guards are too busy playing with their balls to notice I’m not there. And now they all just look STUPID, and Sue, too! Now I’M gonna be the dodgeball CAPTAIN.”

Root says, “Then, I suppose killing a dozen innocent women was all worth it in the end!”

Spencer doesn’t know what to say. All this death, all this fear, over a stupid PE game? (Though, she can’t lie, dodgeball in zero-gravity does sound amazing. Just, not enough to kill a bunch of people over.) Millions of miles away from Earth, the same high school dynamics still apply. Spencer knows first-hand that getting bullied will drive people to do all sorts of crazy things, and this is certainly no exception. It’s amazing to her that Becky got away with this for almost an entire year. Why did Sue never investigate it? Spencer overheard her on the phone trying to rationalize several of the deaths, but did she not even care what had happened? If no one truly noticed when Becky snuck away, then her actions would only make the other guards look bad without tracing back to herself. Well, until now. Maybe Sue was okay with some guard-on-prisoner violence. It helps ease Spencer’s guilt about all the reciprocation that took place today.

Despite the shock and sadness that all of this was caused by exclusion from a children’s game, of all things, the complete picture is in focus now. It’s a relief to be at the bottom of it, after everything they’ve suffered today. Spencer’s feeling quite smug and proud for finally ousting the villains once and for all. These women should be grateful she came onboard when she did so she could put a stop to the murders, since Sue clearly wasn’t going to.

Raising her voice so everyone can hear, Spencer announces confidently, “Now that Becky has confessed to assisting in the murders of the ten missing girls, she’s gonna tell us how Vee chose her targets.”

But Chloe O’Brian answers for her, like it’s obvious. “The Order of Sin.” Everyone around her nods and mumbles in agreeance.

“The what?” Spencer asks, looking around the group. Whatever Chloe just said, it sounded terrible.

“Vee’s enemies,” Lexa says with that unsettling, serious stare she always has. “The rival clan.”

 _“Clan?”_  Spencer says before she can stop herself.

Rosa shoots Lexa a condescending look. “She means gang. There’s no such thing as prison _clans.”_

Spencer’s mouth falls open, but…yeah. _Of course there are gangs in prison. Even in space._

_I’m a fucking idiot._

There’s an awkward silence, then Starbuck cracks a cocky smile. “You’ve been here, what, a whole month, Shit Girl?”

Becky starts to laugh obnoxiously loud and doesn’t stop even when Ripley yanks hard to tighten her grip.

Starbuck keeps egging Spencer on. “And nobody came calling? Yikes. Even O’Brian got tapped and she’s been here four days. Guess you weren’t even good enough for the Pastels.” She makes a face that says, _Wow, that is really embarrassing for you._

“Oh, like Lucy would ever want your drunk ass,” Lucy Diamond retorts at Starbuck, then adds, “and I do mean both Lucys.”

Spencer’s not sure if Lucy Diamond’s defending her or not, but she’ll take it. “I’ve actually been here three months,” she says for the second time today. Looking around, she says louder, “THREE MONTHS, EVERYONE,” then looks back at Starbuck. “Thanks for noticing.”

 _“She noticed your tits,”_  someone says behind her, and the others laugh, but Spencer barely hears it.

Spencer looks back at Chloe and balks at one point in particular. “…Your gang’s called _the Pastels_?” Even for the Play-Doh crowd, that seems incredibly…fluffy. Not very gang-like.

“It’s two words,” Alice says. “Lucy says remembering the pain in our past can make us stronger in the present.”

_Oh. Past Hells. Clever._

The earlier conversation in the kitchen comes flooding back to Spencer. Lucy mentioned “her girls” and that Vee and Aphasia “had the rest.” These must be the gang lines. But…why did no one want her? She’s not used to being a social outcast, especially when it comes to tight groups of women. Surely the other inmates wanted her to join them, right? Spencer’s cool! She’s fun! She’s not at all an obsessive, neurotic, overly talkative and paranoid conspiracy theorist. She’s the goddamn life of any party!

Well. Okay, maybe not.

Still, she’s smart! She’s valuable! Maybe there was some sign and she missed it. Maybe there was an invitation she never received. Maybe in all of her cell transfers, a note got passed but she’d already moved on and nobody forwarded her mail. There had to be something.

But, Spencer shared a bunk bed with Aphasia for a goddamn month, so there were plenty of chances to invite Spencer in. It’s more than a little insulting that she never did. Not that Spencer would’ve necessarily said yes, because Aphasia’s a nutcase and her gang is basically Death Row. But it would’ve been nice to receive an information packet so she could at least give the offer proper consideration. And now, because Aphasia passed her over, Spencer became sloppy seconds for Lucy’s Spank ‘n’ Sparkle crew, which does not sit any better with her. Nor does the fact that she’d been adopted out of pity. Or even just for sex.

 _Wait, was_ that _her initiation?_

_Oh god. It’s like a sorority hazing gone very, very wild._

_But wait a second…_

…Now that she’s thinking about it, maybe _Vee_ is the one who tried recruiting her, for real. Vee did offer up that test of sorts, getting Hermione’s file from the office. And she gave that speech in the cafeteria earlier about everyone having a skill and something to contribute. That was Spencer’s opportunity to show her worth to the big boss lady. Maybe if Spencer had met Vee’s expectations, she’d have been offered a key to that kingdom. Maybe she could be in a power position right now instead of being not just on the bottom, but on the outside. Though, now that she knows Vee is behind all the killings, Spencer feels even better about not placing her allegiance there.

 _The Past Hells it is_ , she sighs to herself.

“So,” Spencer starts hesitantly. It’s weird talking about all this gang stuff without any of the supposed leaders present. “Some of you are in The Sins, which I assume is Aphasia’s group.”

“That’s right,” Octavia says. She holds up her hands, one making a C and the other making an O, though Spencer has no idea why. Then several other people hold up the same sign – Root, Sameen Shaw, Joan Watson, Starbuck, Rosa Diaz, two girls Spencer doesn’t know.

And Quinn.

That knocks some of the wind out of Spencer’s chest, but she hides it. “Not very many of you,” she says. Even with Hermione and the leader, herself. But it looks like a tough group of smart, no-nonsense women who don’t take any shit. Now Spencer’s mad again to not have been invited.

Quinn drops her hands, and the others take the cue to do the same. “Raven’s with us, too. And we had more,” she says. “Aeryn. Vause. Paulie. Stacey.” She looks pointedly at Becky. “Before someone decided to kill them.”

Becky sneers back at Quinn, “You don’t scare me, Jeffrey _Dumber_.”

“Then, I guess you don’t know me that well,” Quinn says back with eyes of steel.

“Jesus,” Spencer says, running through her mental list of the murder roster. It’s all of them. “No wonder Aphasia hates her so much. I would, too.”

“It’s retaliation,” Root says. “Most of us were with Vee before Aphasia arrived.” She glares at Lucy’s crew and says wryly, “Not everyone is a big fan of Play-Doh.” Root refocuses on Spencer. “If I’m going to get my hands dirty, it needs to be for a worthier cause. Aphasia brought one to the table.”

Spencer looks at the small group of women. “So, you defected. Starting a third gang.”

“Upsetting the great equilibrium of space prison,” Root says with a _whoopsy-daisy_ expression.

Spencer pauses for a moment, looking over the faces of the inmates, then Becky, and she has to ask – “If you all knew it was Vee this whole time, why didn’t anyone say anything to Sue about it?”

“What makes you think we didn’t?” Shaw asks in her overly intimidating way.

Root gives Shaw a subtle look that makes her stand down. “We had no proof. Prison politics is tricky business. Aphasia doesn’t want an investigation. Nothing that might draw attention to her ties in here,” Root explains carefully. She still has a mixed audience. “We need more time. We have a plan.”

Starbuck rolls her eyes. _“Gee, where have I heard_ that _before?”_ she mutters.

“Even though Vee’s been killing you off one by one,” Spencer says. “You’re just waiting.”

Root narrows her eyes, like she’s annoyed Spencer’s not understanding her. “It’s a calculated risk.”

“You’re not a _‘calculated risk,’_ ” Spencer counters, “you’re _people!”_  She knows Root means Aphasia is protecting Hermione above all others, but it still seems stone-cold that a leader wouldn’t stand up for people who’ve sworn allegiance to her. “And you’re fine to just play a waiting game, knowing you could be next when that Code Red sounds.”

“Of course it’s not fine,” Root says. “But we swore an oath to fight for a cause, and that’s bigger than any one person. We know what we signed on for. Not all fights are dodgeballs in the cafeteria. Some fights are even worth dying for.”

There’s weight to her words, and Spencer wonders what this woman’s backstory is. Is she part of this supposed Wizarding War that Aphasia told her about? Is there something else going on?

Spencer doesn’t know what to say. There’s clearly more going on here than she can understand, and who is she to tell a soldier their cause isn’t worthwhile?

“Aphasia’s doing the best she can,” Root says gently. “We know what she’s about.”

“Waffles?” Spencer offers flippantly, just to break the tension.

The Sins don’t laugh, but everyone else does. The levity of the moment provides an opening for new voices to join the conversation.

Lucy Diamond offers with an arrogant smirk, “Maybe you’re all just easy to pick off. Vee’s too smart to fuck with Lucy.” She squints at the awkwardness and quickly adds, “The other Lucy. Not me-Lucy.”

Spencer realizes that’s true – none of the victims have been from Lucy’s group. She points around the circle cautiously. “You guys are all in the Past Hells?” Shay, Lucy Diamond, River Tam, Dark Willow, Lexa, Clarke, Moriarty, Alice, Regina, Chloe O’Brian, Sophia Burset, Flaca, Maritza, and the lone remaining Sarah Connor all acknowledge, crossing their arms, raising hands, or stepping forward out of the ranks. There are ten more girls behind them Spencer doesn’t even know the names of yet with raised hands, too. It’s a much more intimidating presence, just from the numbers alone, and Spencer has to assume that Faith, Santana, and Mack would all be shoulder to shoulder with them if they were here. Probably Idgie, too. Lucy’s influence has an even wider reach than she realized. Only a fraction of these women were in the Play-Doh Funhouse class. There are representatives from at least a dozen cells, which is over half the prison. Women that Spencer’s never even talked to before. But they all seem to know exactly who she is.

This is some serious, mafia-level shit here. How does one girl control this many people without any executive power?

 _Oh my god, has Lucy fucked_ every single one _of these women??_

If so, Spencer’s kind of impressed. Weirded out and strangely jealous, but impressed.

But, assuming it isn’t just a sex thing, Spencer can’t help but think -- if joining Aphasia’s gang is a death sentence, maybe some of these women only _pretended_ to pledge loyalty to Lucy to stay alive. It’s not a bad tactic.

Spencer chases a train of thought down the rabbit hole, wondering how far she would go – sex aside -- in sucking up to Lucy in her stupid class if it meant protection from Vee and the spiders.

But wait – speaking of the spiders…

“Hang on, Faith’s with Lucy, right?” Spencer asks, and the Past Hells members nod.

“That a problem?” Regina asks.

Spencer’s mind is racing. “Then why would Vee send the spiders to take her last night?”

But before anyone can answer, a voice comes from behind them that sends chills up Spencer’s spine. _“Because I needed you to be scared, Spencer.”_

Spencer whips around, heart pounding out of her chest, and sees two dark eyes staring back at her like they’ve just risen out of Hell itself.

It’s Vee.

But even worse, she’s surrounded by her pack of loyal minions – Tastee, Poussey, Suzanne, Johanna, Kat, Jessica Huang, and a few other women Spencer doesn’t know. Big Boo’s standing on the end, carrying the lifeless body of Nichols in her arms. The redness in her face gives away that she’s been crying, but now she looks angry enough to rip someone’s chest open.

Vee’s sporting a bruise on her forehead from when Aphasia knocked her out, but she’s recovered now and more than ready to throw down. Fresh trails of blood are dripping from her wounds to the floor. She has fire in her eyes and more than a few dead spiders in her hair. Her hands are empty, but Spencer has no doubt those fingernails could slit her throat. At the very least, Vee’s got enough cronies here to hold Spencer down while she cracks her sternum open with her boots.

This isn’t going to end well.

“So, tell me.” Vee and her gang move forward together in a pyramid formation, approaching slowly like a tank about to mow Spencer down. When she’s only two feet from Spencer, she holds up a hand, signaling for the others to stop behind her. But then Vee takes three more steps forward to position herself right in front of Spencer’s eyes. Staring dead ahead, Vee breaks out into a wide, eerie grin and holds it without blinking. _“Are you scared yet?”_


	62. Civil Warden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

“OH MY GOD, THEY SAID YOU WERE DEAD!” Becky screams. The piercing voice cuts through the terror of the moment.

Jessica Huang smiles and gives a soft laugh. “Silly elf. Look how wrong you are. This is very embarrassing for you.”

Vee shifts to stand at ease, giving herself some room to breathe while she handles this distraction. “Not quite,” she tells Becky. “But you will be. Right after our friend, Miss Hastings.”

“Say what?!” Becky sputters.

“You’ve been sharing our private conversations with the enemy.” Vee squints in disapproval. “I need people I can trust. That’s clearly not you.”

“But I didn’t say anything!” Becky pleads, tugging hard against Ripley’s grip. “These losers were saying they wanted to KILL you!”

“I was lying!” Spencer yells back at Becky. “I just wanted you to talk! You’re the one who was excited when you thought she was dead.”

Vee considers this and says, “I’m sure there are a lot of people here who wouldn’t mind seeing me dead. Everybody wants power. You know, I always thought that topic would make for an interesting book. Several families all vying for power, killing each other off to take over the throne. It’s almost like a game, isn’t it? You could make a whole series out of that if you drag it on long enough.”

The word _Lannister_ pops into Spencer’s mind, taking her back to cell 1. “Last night, why settle for scaring me when you could just kill me? Why bring Faith into it?” she asks. She hopes there’s safety in numbers and that if Vee tries to take her out right here and now, enough people would jump in to defend her.

“Because I don’t want you dead if you don’t need to be, Spencer,” Vee says. “I can use your help.” But her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and something doesn’t feel right about this. “Faith is big muscle with a big mouth. Women like her just see you as another hot piece of ass, but you and I both know your best feature is your brain. I need smart people on my team. People with skills.” Vee looks around the crowded hallway at the roster of faces before her. “Where’s Aphasia?” she barks.

The inmates all look around, wondering the same thing themselves.

Suddenly, a loud voice comes booming from behind them, back at the start of the hallway. _“YOU WILL LEAVE HER ALONE!”_

Spencer hears the angry footsteps marching before she sees the mop of hair bouncing in time. Hermione’s got her wand raised and is cutting through the crowd, looking meaner than ever. She passes Spencer and stops about ten feet away from Vee, in between the groups of onlookers.

“Be careful, little girl,” Vee warns. “Wouldn’t want you to poke your eye out with that thing.” A beat. “Not before Suzanne can do it for you.”

As Tastee, Poussey, and the other supporters _“Oooh!”_   at the sick burn, Vee’s right-hand woman nods slowly and cracks her knuckles with a wide-eyed expression that will haunt Spencer’s dreams for at least a week.

“Where’s your girlfriend,” Vee asks calmly.

“You don’t want her, not really. You want me.” Hermione sounds quite confident in the face of danger. She holds her arms out and drops them to her sides, wand and all. “Here I am.”

Vee pauses to consider the girl’s words. No one seems to know exactly what’s happening here – A deal? A trap? A sex proposal? The tension in the overcrowded hallway is palpable.

“Just like that?” Vee asks. “With everyone watching.” Hermione doesn’t deny it. Vee’s chin rises as her eyes narrow, considering her options. After appearing weak during the battle, reparation of her street cred _(space cred?)_ depends on how she handles this. “Why now?”

“Because I know you’re a woman of your word. And if I give you what you want, you’ll leave Aphasia alone. And all of her people. Permanently.”

Tastee chimes in, “More like, I’m gonna end you permanently.”

Hermione raises her wand again, this time at her taunter, but then looks back to the boss without lowering her weapon. “Well?”

Vee crosses her arms with a smile. “You know, it’s so funny you should say that.” She looks to her comrades, who seem to be in on the joke. “I seem to remember Aphasia coming to me with the same kind of idea just a few months ago.” She looks to Big Boo and says, “You remember that?” Turning back to Hermione, Vee steps forward to deliver this history lesson. “Aphasia set up a meet around Thanksgiving. After-hours, very hush-hush. I think you were out getting caught again,” Vee adds playfully, toying with her enemy. “She said she’d get something for me, something really good. And if she did, would I leave _you_ alone, once and for all? That was her offer. See? _Déjà vu_. You two are just a bunch of lovesick jailbirds, aren’t you?” Vee’s gang laughs to themselves. “It was a good deal. So, I’m afraid I can’t take you up on your offer, Miss Granger, as I _am_ a woman of my word. You’re off-limits to me now.”

Hermione wasn’t expecting this. Her wand arm sags slightly with the weight of Vee’s words. “What did she steal for you?” She sounds afraid to ask.

“A key card,” Vee replies. “Swiped off the doctor during a routine check-up, if I’m not mistaken. That girlfriend of yours sure does have quick fingers.” Vee bites her lip, as if to suppress a giggle at her own loaded comment. Taking one step forward, she says, “Thanks to her, I’ve had full access to DYAD.”

 _Oh no_.

Tastee whispers, _“What’s DYAD?”_  to Poussey, like she missed some notes in class.

Suzanne looks up and points toward the ceiling, squinting hard, as if she’s developing a very complex thought. “Sounds like…math that can kill you.”

“It’s a company,” Vee says. “D-Y-A-D.”

“That’s the prison life, ain’t it?” Poussey offers. “Do Years And Die.”

“Aw, das tight!” Tastee laughs, and the two exchange a complex high-five ritual. When it ends, as the laughter fades, so does her smile. “And kinda depressing.”

Right now, Spencer would be quite grateful for the assurance that she’s still got years to go. This new information has hit her like a ton of bricks. The spider killings trace back to _Aphasia_. Not intentionally, of course, but the fact remains. Aphasia was trying to protect Hermione, and as a result, a dozen girls are dead. Much like how Spencer tried to protect Quinn, and now Graham, the detective, and sixteen guards are lying in pieces all over the prison. So many good intentions, so much death.

Vee ignores her cronies and resumes her story. “Poor little Aphasia probably didn’t even know what she was handing over. If she had, she wouldn’t have given it up, not even for you, I’d imagine. But lucky for me, in her effort to distract me from my interest in _you_ , she handed over the key to the kingdom, quite literally.” With a wicked smile, Vee asks Hermione playfully, “Did you know there’s a secret laboratory on this ship?”

The other inmates start chatting in reaction, confused, but no one seems to know anything. Spencer sees that those who do are keeping their mouths shut.

Hermione straightens up slightly as she lowers her wand. “I was just there today,” she says haughtily. “It’s where those thousand spiders we just fought off came from. In case you didn’t know about all that, what with being knocked unconscious.”

Spencer bites her lip and tries to hide her immediate reaction of, _Damn!_   Hermione isn’t afraid to throw down with the prison puppet-master.

_That makes one of us._

Vee just smiles. “Of course. Believe me, little girl, I knew all about them long before you did. DYAD’s been on this ship longer than you’ve been alive. As a matter of fact, they’re the reason I’m behind bars in the first place.”

“How?” Spencer can’t help herself.

That gets the whisper train moving as confused inmates look to each other for answers. Though, none of them seem to be looking at Spencer. But Vee is.

“Embezzling. They didn’t appreciate that I was skimming a bit off the top. Not enough to affect profit shares, of course; just a little cushion on top of what was, frankly, a shamefully low warden’s salary that I never should have accepted in the first place. But I guess twenty years ago I didn’t fully understand or appreciate what I’m capable of like I am now.”

 _“You_ used to be warden?” Spencer gawks.

“You must be newer than I thought,” Vee replies plainly. “Yes, I was in charge before Sue came in and turned this place into the pathetic excuse for a prison that it is now. You’d think she was trying to run a community college with all of her ideas about coursework and rehabilitation, and that godawful Madonna noise.” She turns to Suzanne and says, “Honestly, I think it’s taken years off my life,” and then resumes her lecture.

“When I was in charge, this prison was a booming business built on commerce – supply and demand. We had a reputation. We got things done. And after dinner we listened to _real_ music like Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday and Bobby Brown. Sue lets her emotions get in the way of her job. Giving prisoners special treatment…” Vee looks at Spencer and asks, “Do you know Lucy was only nine years old when we locked her up?”

Spencer’s expression asks the question for her: _“We?”_

“That’s right. I was in charge when she had her…” Vee looks at Suzanne. “What did she call it?” Then she remembers on her own. “Paint-By-Numbers. Painting the walls with blood as she counted her victims. One, two, three, four…”

Jessica Huang leans in and adds, knowingly, “Four is very unlucky.”

“I would’ve put her in Solitary if it hadn’t been full,” Vee tells Spencer, loudly enough that all the Past Hells can hear her. “Even as a child. She’s very unstable. And Sue treats her like a spoiled brat. But I promise you, that’s going to change very soon.” Vee smiles and looks around the group.

Shay’s fed up with the speech. “Shove it up your ass.”

But Vee isn’t fazed. “I’ve been trying to go through proper channels and procedures and avoid having an all-out coup, letting the administration see Sue’s absolute incompetence for themselves, but no matter how many prisoners disappeared, they kept letting her slide by. I guess that’s what you get when you become the President’s personal sex-kitten.”

Spencer winces at the image.

Vee takes another step toward Spencer, refocusing on her with a sigh. “But now I hear you, of all people, have managed to solve the Sue problem for me, so I guess I owe you a line of gratitude, Miss Hastings. I’ll let you and your friends live. For now.”

“I assure you,” Hermione says sternly, “it’s the other way around.”

“Make no mistake,” Vee continues, making eye contact with both Hermione and Spencer, “I’m the one in charge now. I’m going to bring this ship back to greatness again. And I do believe DYAD is going to be much more accommodating this time around. They’re at the very heart of my rehabilitation plan.”

Vee can’t have been talking for more than a minute or so, but Spencer has lost all sense of time and reality. How can this be happening? Spencer is simply stunned.

“Now,” Vee continues, “I haven’t been able to pay them a visit myself lately, of course, but Becky’s been a fantastic inside person. That magical key card gave her access to all kinds of things -- files, information, the high-level-clearance door with the thousand spiders behind it, as you mentioned. From what she tells me, not even all of the scientists down there know about it. They’re too busy working on much more interesting things. DYAD’s always sought to boost diversification to remain relevant in the most prominent scientific research markets. And I’ve always felt that, like any good company, their best product” – Vee looks right at Spencer with a smug expression – “is their people.”

Spencer’s heart stops, for what must be the tenth time today.

_She knows about the clones._

_She knows about_ me _._

Hermione doesn’t take the bait and stands bravely and steadfast in her offer, bringing the conversation back. “And _I’m_ offering you one of the best people on this ship -- me.” To show she means it, she holsters her wand in her bra. (Spencer can’t help but liken it to when men shove a pistol into their waistband right above their private parts, tempting fate to shoot it off.) “I will pledge loyalty to you and your girls. I’ll do your bidding. And the war on Aphasia and the Sins ends.”

“What does your girlfriend say about that?” Vee asks. It’s a fair question.

“She doesn’t know. This is between you and me.” Hermione chokes back the slightest hint of emotion. “She’ll accept it. She’ll have to. I’m true to my word.”

The wheels are turning in Vee’s mind; Spencer can see that she’s considering it. But the offer itself seems crazy. Spencer’s seen how strong the connection is between Aphasia and Hermione. She’s seen how much it tears Aphasia apart to be off limits to her love. How is ripping her heart in two, if even for her own good, supposed to make anything better around here? But then, Spencer wonders if cutting this bond could bring peace to the ship after all. With Vee appeased, maybe the violence would finally end. No one else needs to die.

Vee takes a step forward and resumes her commanding tone. “You will follow my orders, no questions asked. You will acquire off-ship items at my whim and return them to me within twenty-four hours, no questions asked. If you fail to acquire any item I request, there will be steep consequences. Ones your friends may not survive.” She takes another step closer, not breaking eye contact. “And you will end your relationship with Aphasia. No more contact, of any kind. If we need something from her, one of my girls will handle it. You and Aphasia are over. And all these witnesses” – Vee motions to their audience – “will make sure you keep your word, or the next body out the airlock will be hers.”

Silence hangs in the corridor as the thirty women watching this unfold collectively hold their breath. Hermione’s eyes water, but she doesn’t brush the tears away. With a brave sniffle, she steadies herself and stands up straight. Holding out a hand toward Vee, she says, “Deal,” weakly.

A gleam of victory shines in Vee’s eyes as she looks over the defeated girl before her. Hermione looks smaller now, somehow, much as she’s trying to be brave. She’s clearly devastated and trying to hold her shit together. But she’s just sold herself to the devil, right here in front of everyone. Spencer can’t imagine what the rest of Hermione’s prison sentence is going to be like, but she has to respect the unconditional love that’s behind her sacrifice.

Eyes locked on Hermione’s, Vee replies, “Deal,” and extends her hand. Poussey, Tastee, and Suzanne are already snickering and laughing to themselves, like they can’t believe they’ve managed to reel in such a big, stupid fish. Or maybe they’re just thinking about all the candy bars they’re going to put in requests for.

In the center of the room, Vee grips Hermione’s trembling fingers, sealing the deal. A second later, Hermione squeezes tightly and grabs Vee’s forearm with her free hand, twisting hard. There’s a loud _CRACK!_ and Vee and Hermione are gone in an instant.

“VEE!” Becky cries out, but it’s lost in the ruckus of the rest of the group.

“Shit!” Poussey yells, both hands on her head as she looks around in panic. “Shit! Shit!”

The rest of Vee’s gang jumps back in fear and shock, cursing and yelling loudly, unable to believe what they’re seeing. Sure, Hermione vanishes all the time, but she’s never taken anyone with her before.

“WHERE THE FUCK DID SHE GO?” Tastee is shouting at Spencer, as if she’d know anything about it. “WHERE THE FUCK DID SHE GO!”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Spencer yells back over the chaos that’s erupted in the hall. The other women in Aphasia’s and Lucy’s gangs don’t seem to know what to make of the disappearing act either.

Then, without warning, a second _CRACK!_ silences the crowd, as Hermione reappears right where she left. Her hair is mussed and she looks a little dizzy, but she stays strong on her feet and pulls herself together. Reorienting herself, she turns to face Vee’s group, wand extended, and asks defiantly, “Would anyone else like to suggest I break up with my girlfriend?”

That shuts everyone the fuck up.

“Where the hell is Vee!” Suzanne yells, tears in her eyes. It’s taking Kat, Poussey, and Tastee’s collective strength to hold her back.

“A nearby desert planet,” Hermione replies, “where she’ll likely freeze to death once it gets dark, provided she can breathe long enough to see the sun set. Honestly, I don’t think she’ll last an hour.”

 _Holy crap,_ Spencer thinks. Hermione isn’t fucking around.

“Bullshit,” Johanna says, stepping forward past Tastee but keeping a safe distance, whatever that might be. No one seems to know anymore.

Hermione doesn’t back down. “It’s possible. Maybe I took her to another prison ship and left her to rot in one of their high-security cells. She’ll have starved to death before anyone realizes she’s there.” She lets that idea hang for a moment, then says, “Or she could just be floating in space, already cold and lifeless. Either way, she’s gone and she’s not coming back.”

Spencer has to admire the witch’s handiwork. Whatever she did to Vee, it took less than sixty seconds and now everyone is too scared to go anywhere near her. A stroke of brilliance, Spencer agrees. And a terrifying one at that.

As the truth of Hermione’s statement settles in, the hall gradually falls quiet. None of Vee’s girls know what to say. They’re in varying states of emotion – sadness, disbelief, fear, rage.

Suzanne’s not hiding her tears. She struggles to find her words, holding a hand out and balling it into a fist, then opening it again, over and over. “If you…truly… _hurt her_ …I will _end you_.” She finishes weakly as her voice trembles and cracks.

“No,” Hermione says, outwardly rejecting the notion. “The violence ends now. It started with Vee, and it ends with Vee.” She turns slowly in a circle to make eye contact with every inmate one by one. “We just fought together and survived a _war_. If we can take on a thousand spiders and win, why can’t we put aside our quarrels and find a way to live together?” Her voice is growing stronger as she makes her impassioned plea. “The cycle of killing has to end. If it doesn’t, we all end up dead.”

“Oh, _you’ll_ end up dead, that’s for damn sure,” Tastee says, stepping up and pointing a finger-gun at Hermione. A few agreeing murmurs trickle through Vee’s crew.

All goddamn day Spencer’s been fighting, risking her life for an end to what’s been happening here. If Hermione’s found a way to reach that goal, Spencer doesn’t want to let it slip away. “She’s right,” she says, and all eyes turn to her. Realizing her entry point into the conversation, she clarifies, “Not that,” and points to Tastee, shaking her head. “Hermione’s right. We can make this work.” She looks to her friends. “We run this prison now. We’ve killed all the guards. Sue’s locked up in Solitary. We took out the spiders. We’re the only ones left on the ship. This place is ours now.” A chill runs up her spine at the very thought. They’ve come out on top.

Lucy Diamond speaks up. “What about that lab or whatever? D’you kill all them too?”

“Not exactly. But –”

“What about the doctors?” Kat asks.

“One of them was killed,” Spencer says. “The other two are fine. One of them is down in the lab with the scientists.” As soon as Spencer realizes she left herself open to the question, she freezes, and it comes.

“Where’s the other one?” It’s Starbuck.

_Shit._

“She’s probably down there, too,” Spencer replies as normally as she can.

“You don’t think she’s with Raven?” Starbuck asks.

Spencer’s heart pounds, and she feels even more anxious there in the middle of forty women with all eyes on her. “Uh…she could be?” She never asked to be in the middle of this, whatever this domestic love affair triangle is, and now she’s going to get the brunt of Starbuck’s reac-–

But Starbuck just pushes through the crowd and takes off running, calling back, _“I’m gonna make sure they’re okay!”_

Spencer’s mouth falls open and closes again, then opens once more, but she isn’t sure what to say. “Okay.”

“What,” Tastee says, “you didn’t know they all bangin?”

Spencer’s starting to wonder why, at this point, she would assume any two people in this prison _aren’t_ having sex.

“The other doctors are downstairs,” Spencer continues. “I don’t think they’ll get in our way as long as we don’t get in theirs. We can work something out.”

“The same scientists who made the bajillion spiders?” Dark Willow asks skeptically. “Yeah, they sound like super reasonable people who would love to stop doing their life’s work for no good reason whatsoever.”

“We outnumber them,” Spencer says. “We’ve destroyed all their specimens. We can destroy their research, too. And we can monitor their work. If they start back on any dangerous projects, we can stop them.”

“Sounds like a big ‘if,’ ” Rosa says. “I say we kill ‘em.”

“No!” Spencer says. “No more killing. Nobody else dies.”

The inmates quietly consider Spencer’s proposal. Women from opposing gangs cast glances at each other, wondering if this hokey pokey world peace horseshit even seems possible.

“So…who’s in charge now?” Shay asks the room. More wandering eyes.

“Lucy,” Regina offers.

“Not gonna happen,” Root says. “Looks like Hermione is the one who melted the Wicked Bitch of the West. I say we give her a chance. She and Aphasia have earned it.”

“Oh, _hell no_ ,” Tastee shouts. “She’s gonna disappear us all to that desert planet! I hate sand!”

“I’m not,” Hermione says, and her tone conveys her sincerity. “I did mean one part of my deal with Vee, and that’s a peace between us.”

But it’s clear that the wound is still too fresh for any of them to take Hermione at her word.

“We’ll elect a council,” Spencer says, redirecting the conversation. “Everyone gets a vote. We’ll choose five or six representatives to be in charge of decisions that affect the whole group. Okay? We’ll do this right. Not just along gang lines.” Spencer had to navigate a lot of social hierarchies in Rosewood, but gangs were not one of them. Still, she’s glad to see heads nodding on Lucy’s and Aphasia’s side of the hall. Vee’s side isn’t protesting, which Spencer will take as a step in the right direction.

Ripley says, “What do we do with her?” She’s been holding on to Becky for quite some time now and seems more than ready to be done.

Spencer considers their options. “Well, we can’t trust you,” she says to the girl.

“YOU’RE the one who lied about Vee, MAPLE SHITS,” Becky fires back. She’s not wrong.

“Fine,” Spencer relents. “I think I know just the thing for you.” Looking back at Ripley, she says, “Wasn’t there an empty cell? Down the hall. You still have the key, right?”

Vasquez nods, “Yeah, we got it.”

Becky struggles hard at the thought of going to Solitary. “You’ll never get away with this, bitch!”

“Pretty sure I will,” Spencer says, arms crossed. “Enjoy your stay.”

And with that, Ripley and Vasquez escort the squirming, yelling, former assistant past Vee’s shell-shocked flunkies and out of sight behind the cafeteria. Spencer can hear Vasquez’s voice in the distance as they pass the trash chute. _“Maybe we should just chuck her down there,”_  but they continue onward.

With the excitement finally over and no guards to boss them around, nobody seems to know what to do next. They’re still covered in paint and blood and spider guts, and in desperate need of showers.

“So, now what?” Sarah Connor says with attitude. “We just go back home and pretend like none of this happened?”

“Yeah. I think we do,” Spencer says. “For now, anyway. Let’s all go back to our cells and clean up and get some rest. Tomorrow morning we can meet in the caf—” but then she remembers the current state of affairs, and that’s the last place any of them want to be right now. “Let’s meet in the library and we’ll figure out our next steps.” She waits for some kind of confirmation or dissent, something, but they’re all too tired to argue. One by one, the tired women begin to disperse toward the cell block and showers, Aphasia’s group leading out first and the others following.

Spencer makes a point of saying to Vee’s girls before they leave, “We meant it when we said we want peace. This is a new start for all of us.”

Kat mutters, “Whatever,” and rolls her eyes but doesn’t put up any more of a fight. Neither do her counterparts. Most of them don’t even want to look at Spencer right now.

After they pass and the hallway empties, Spencer notices that Hermione has hung back to speak with her privately. “Where the hell did you take Vee?” Spencer whispers. She still can’t believe that whole thing happened.

“I’ll explain later,” Hermione replies. “I’m going to find Aphasia. She was tending to Lucy to make sure she didn’t wake up alone. I’ll tell them everything that’s happened.”

“Okay. I’m going to make sure Becky and Sue are secure,” Spencer says. She starts down the hall in the opposite direction, then pauses and turns back to say, “Hey – thanks. For everything.”

Hermione nods once with a pursed smile, then simply says, “You’re welcome,” though there’s clearly much more behind her tired eyes. Without another word, she turns away and quickly retreats after her true love and the band of women who put her life in danger every day because of it.


	63. Tying Up Lucy Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

When Spencer reaches the Solitary Ward, Vasquez and Ripley are alone, peeking through the small window in the first cell and telling Becky – who is banging on the door and yelling obscenities -- to shut the hell up already. Her new neighbor, Martha Stewart, is complaining about the noise as well, loud enough for Spencer to hear it from thirty feet away.

“Hey,” Spencer whispers as she catches up to them. Right now, with Sue thinking she’s dead, she doesn’t want to poke the bear by informing her otherwise. “Everything okay here?”

“Rock solid,” Vasquez says, and pulls on the door to show it’s sealed shut.

They move further down the hall out of earshot, stopping in the open space where the stone-cold body of the dead blonde guard in the red leather suit still lies. Spencer had tried to ignore it when she first passed through, but now they’re standing three feet away, and it’s starting to smell.

Vasquez asks, “What should we do with these?” She holds up the Solitary key as well as two DYAD key cards she must’ve found on Sue and Becky. They’re almost identical, but one has a small strip of silver hologram along the left edge. “We can’t trust any of them,” she motions in the general direction of the cell block.

“You keep them,” Spencer says. “I trust you.”

“Can’t. We’re leaving. Now.”

“Wait,” Spencer looks back and forth between the two women, who look even more tired than she feels. “How?”

“There’s a ship,” Ripley says. “In the docking bay. We think it’s from the inspector that Sue was meeting.”

 _Right._ Another dead body on her conscience.

“We saw it when we locked up Greggs,” Vasquez adds. “Should still be there, fueled up and ready to go. We’re gonna finally get out of this hellhole.”

Spencer nods as she takes all this in. Much as she doesn’t want them to go, she won’t stand in their way. These two deserve a free ticket out after everything they’ve been through. “Yeah, sure.” She takes the keys and fumbles for a moment, then slides them into her left sock. It briefly occurs to her to ask to hitch a ride, but in her heart she knows that she has nowhere to go, anyway. She would just be a third wheel, and these women have every right to a peaceful retirement alone. Spencer offers them a hopeful smile. “Good luck. And thanks for all the help today, with Quinn and everything.”

“Thanks for getting me out,” Ripley replies. It’s not a heartfelt moment, but it’s an honest one.

Spencer only just met Ellen Ripley today, after being afraid of her for at least a month, and now she’s surprised to find how sad she is that she’ll likely never see either of these women ever again. But she hopes not, for their sakes.

“Most of the girls are probably back in their cells by now, or busy having freedom sex in the showers,” Spencer says. “Take the east hall to the elevator in Sue’s office. You should be able to get downstairs without being seen.”

“Anybody who tries to stop us won’t live to tell about it,” Vasquez says simply. It’s not a joke.

“Thanks.” Ripley offers her sincere goodbye to Spencer, then squeezes Vasquez’s shoulder as they start toward the far hallway.

Spencer watches them go for a moment, thinking about how lucky they are to have made it through this and both come out alive on the other side. Just from what she’s heard today, it sounds like they have a lot of catching up – and clearing up – to do. She wishes them well, wherever they’re headed, and hopes they’re able to find peace somewhere, somehow. Maybe even a place where they aren’t used as leverage against each other in a two-way fake murder holiday scheme. But hopefully a place with toothbrushes. Guns and toothbrushes and no blackmail, if that isn’t too much to ask out here in the depths of space.

“Bye,” she calls out, but they’re already out of earshot. “Good luck.”

****************

It’s been so long since Spencer’s seen a man, she’s more than a little thrown by the sight of him.

He’s standing in front of her cell, right outside the TARDIS, talking to someone inside – presumably Lucy -- with his hands on the bars. It’s the same man Spencer saw in what she thought was a dream the day she first met Donna.

_Donna…_

For an hour or so, she’d been so distracted by all of the other crazy shit happening that she’d managed to forget that a woman’s face had been eaten off in front of her. A woman who’d risked her life to help them, these people she didn’t even know. Spencer’s pretty sure she said her last name was Noble. Even if she’s making that up, it still seems fitting.

“Yes, I dare say, that is in fact one of the finer specimens of this species I’ve ever seen,” he says, quite mesmerized, as Spencer reaches earshot. “Boy, would I love to get my hands on that…”

And with that, the bubble of sympathy is burst. Spencer’s mental Fuckface CreepMonster Detector goes off, and she wishes she were armed again. Heavily. Maybe she could catch up with Vasquez and Ripley for a joint-effort smackdown of this douchebag.

“What’s going on?” she asks accusingly. Spencer stops at a safe distance away from the stranger but tries to make up for it with volume. Nobody scares her anymore, not after today, but she’s more than a little scared of the situation she’s just walked up on. For all she knows, Lucy could be standing there naked, bent over and taunting him with her overflowing volcano of sexuality. And Spencer does not have time for that bullshit today.

“Ah, hello again, lesbian prisoner!” the spikey-haired man says cheerfully, stepping back to face Spencer. “My new friend Lucy here was just showing me some of her outstanding paintings. It’s quite the collection, really -- famzels and tribbles and plopmuks – I haven’t seen a purple speckled glistnit in, oh, at least two hundred years, give or take.”

He sounds like he means every word, even though Spencer’s certain that many of the things he just said are not, in fact, actual words. Or that he could be two hundred years old. But she doesn’t really care.

“Yeah,” Spencer says uncertainly, “they’re great.” She steps toward him and eases up on the edge in her voice. “You’re Donna’s friend.”

“Would you believe she locked me in my own swimwear closet? Took me ten whole minutes to create a lockpick out of some stray pins and a wad of bubble gum. And even that was just a waste of time, because it didn’t work, and let’s just say there’s now a hole in the door the size of a scuba tank. I can’t imagine what’s gotten into her. I hoped Lucy here might be able to tell me where she went, but she doesn’t seem to be the most, ah, _informed_ person I’ve met today, and I’ve mostly been talking to assorted pairs of paisley swim trunks.” The man gestures with an eyebrow as he says the last bit quietly, not wanting Lucy to hear the knock against her. “But if you know which way Donna’s gone, I’ll just grab her and we’ll be on our way to leave you ladies to your busin—OH MY GOD!”

He hadn’t looked to his right until now. The carnage from the slaughter – dozens of dead Boomers strewn up and down the cell block corridor – holds his attention for a moment as his mouth hangs open and he looks back and forth from it to Spencer. “I’d heard certain sectors were using Cylon technology but I didn’t realize it could be this…messy. Are you all alright?”

A pit starts to form in her stomach. “Yeah. But I need to take you to Donna. Come on.”

It’s a split-second decision to go the long way. Passing through the battlefield doesn’t seem like the right thing to do, and taking the other route gives Spencer more time to decide what the hell she can say to this guy that will justify what happened to Donna. The three minutes it takes them to get out of the block, down the hall, into Sue’s elevator, and onto the lower level are surreal. On the one hand, they’re able to move freely with no distractions, no delays, and no real urgency. It’s a weird replay of the day’s events, retracing their steps and the bodies everywhere – the guards in the hall, Stella Gibson and the clone of Spencer in Sue’s office (which, fortunately, was face down and didn’t require any deeper explanation). All these spaces feel familiar to Spencer now, whether she likes it or not. The sense of foreboding and mystery and being wrapped up in something big and ominous has all been replaced by sadness and sense of loss that comes with knowing what’s behind the curtain. Things feel smaller; the ship certainly feels smaller to her now, in a way.

And all the while, as they get closer to the abandoned corpse of their mutual friend, Spencer doesn’t want to ever reach it, and she just wants this to be over with already. The emotional exhaustion has taken over, and she’s moving through each hallway on autopilot more than anything. The man says to call him “The Doctor,” which feels pretentious even to Spencer. He asks general question about the events of the day, but Spencer’s out of bandwidth for more than a few words per answer. If anything, she’s only entertaining his inquiries out of respect to Donna. It seems like being nice to this guy is what she would’ve wanted. So, Spencer explains about Umbridge and how Donna was hellbent on wanting to help a woman who was already dead, and she explains the spider story as succinctly as possible. The Doctor doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by a tale of killer mutant spiders in outer space, for whatever that’s worth.

“Friends of yours?” he asks as they reach the main intersection.

Spencer stops and looks up to see there’s activity in the docking bay. Vasquez is just stepping into the small ship; Ripley’s already sitting in the cockpit flipping switches. “Yeah.”

It feels weird seeing an actual spacecraft up close and personal like this, considering she’s been on one for the last three months. This is really the first time she’s gotten to examine one from a short distance. (Unless you count that phone booth upstairs, of course.) It doesn’t look as cool as she predicted, like seeing a Corolla when you were expecting a Lamborghini. But, still – spaceship!

As the door to the vessel closes, Spencer stands in the window and watches, waiting for her chance to wave goodbye if they happen to look over. Smoke fills the small space as the engine fires up, and with several blaring alarm sounds, the far airlock wall parts at the center to reveal the vast, blackness of space. All of the air and smoke are immediately pulled out, along with…something long and dark and quite sizeable that originated from further inside the docking bay. It’s there and gone in a flash, whatever it was, and Spencer jumps forward with her hands against the glass trying to see any trace of it. “Did you see that?”

“See what?” the man asks, peering over her shoulder with squinty eyes.

“Something was in there! I saw it.” But the more she looks around, in vain, the sillier she feels.

Ripley catches her eye now, and Spencer shares a small wave and mouths, “Bye.”

The landing gear releases silently and detaches, pulling into the base of the ship, and Ripley carefully backs it out of the docking bay like it’s merely a car in a parking lot space. Spencer doesn’t know what her piloting experience is like, but it seems to at least be enough to get them out of the _Uterius_ ’s hold, and that’s a good start.

Once Ripley has cleared the edge of the doors, she slowly turns the ship ninety degrees clockwise to angle out toward the open sky. Then, without warning, they take off at blinding speed, almost like they vanished. It seems weird after such a cautious start, but two seconds later, the giant shark sails by the open door with jaw wide open, taking in only the emptiness where Ripley’s ship had just been. 

“Whoa!” the man cries, wide-eyed as Spencer jumps back from the window. This isn’t the first time today this shark has scared the living shit out of her. It needs to be the last. “What is that beautiful creature?”

“That’s Beyoncé.” She heads a few feet back in the direction they came, curving to the left with the hallway until she reaches a door to the control room for the airlock. “We need to close that door. Come on.”

Of all the tasks Spencer had to deal with today, this, fortunately, proves to be the simplest. The second switch they try works, and the docking bay automatically replenishes with oxygen and re-pressurizes itself. Spencer’s almost bummed it didn’t take longer, if only to serve as a distraction from what’s still ahead.

They walk mostly in silence down the hall toward the DYAD door, if only because Spencer doesn’t know what to say and doesn’t want to talk about what happened to Donna until she has to. The adrenaline rush of hunting for Quinn and finding her and defeating the spiders has worn off now, and what remains is mourning and regret. Things could have gone so differently today.

“There was one particularly big spider, like a queen,” she says, as they reach the waste depository door. They stand in front of it awkwardly, but Spencer’s in no hurry to go inside. “It was living in here. We found it by accident. It attacked us, and Donna stood up to it. She was so, so brave.” Spencer’s voice cracks a little at the end, and her emotions get the best of her.

The Doctor realizes then what Spencer’s been building up to and opens the door without further delay. But Spencer can’t bring herself to go back inside that hell chamber where they almost burned, suffocated, and died. She stands in the doorway, propping it open with her body so the light can pour in, and closes her eyes against the sound of The Doctor’s words and tears.

Several minutes later, they make their way back upstairs; Spencer walks ahead, leading the funeral procession. She tells herself it’s because she’s the one who knows the way, not because she can’t bring herself to look at the sorrow following a few steps behind. She remembers when Donna had been the one so excited to explore this place, and The Doctor had warned her to stay away. If only Donna had listened.

Spencer counts the white tiles on the walls as they pass, then tries to identify what key the elevator music is in. Anything to distract her from the fact that there was barely enough left of Donna Noble to be carried away at all.

****************

The walk back seems even longer than the walk there. But eventually, the TARDIS door closes and the familiar whooshing noise starts up again, blowing Spencer’s hair back as the ship fades in and out and finally disappears. Further down, inmates are casually drifting from cell to cell, no longer impeded by locks, laughing and conversing without a care in the world. It seems more than a little irreverent, what with their kills still lining the hall, but Spencer tells herself they’ve earned this victory. After what has been The Longest Day, they deserve a break. If there is something worth laughing about, Spencer doesn’t want to take that away from them, and the mess can wait until tomorrow.

Lucy’s still sitting inside what might be the only closed door in the place. The art show is over; everything’s taped back up on the wall where it began. It’s a rare quiet moment, Spencer realizes – Lucy’s not painting or wrapped up in someone else. Instead, she’s sitting perfectly still on the lower bunk, knees close in to her body, chin resting gently on top. If she’s staring at anything in particular, Spencer can’t tell. It’s striking, seeing her like this. Spencer’s seen Lucy stark naked and wide open, and yet here, fully clothed and curled up tight, she’s never looked so vulnerable and so weak.

“Hey,” Spencer says, but Lucy doesn’t look up. “You okay?” More silence. She’s guessing Lucy’s had time to process the closeness of her past just one floor below. Or maybe she’s mourning the deaths of thousands of bees and spiders. Maybe she feels bad for coming at Spencer’s neck with a goddamn sword. Maybe she’s sad she missed. God only knows.

Whatever’s on her mind, there isn’t anything Spencer can say to make it better for her, not yet. It will take time for the wounds to heal. And while Spencer has other places she needs to be, she doesn’t want to just abandon Lucy, either. They’ve both been through a lot today. So, Spencer swallows her resentment and does the good friend thing.

“I was talking with some of your…gang back there. Sounds like they really care about you.” There’s an awkward silence that Spencer let’s hang a bit too long. “We don’t have to talk right now, I just thought I should check on you.” Still no reaction. “I should probably go see if Aphasia and the others are okay.” Spencer lets go of the bars, beginning to leave, but then pauses and adds, “Thanks for your help today. We really needed you.”

Finally, there’s some motion from Lucy, but she’s just lying down and pulling the white sheet over her body, as if it’s bedtime and Spencer isn’t there at all.

_Fine._

“Good night, I guess,” Spencer says half-assed and walks away. Stepping over and around various dead Boomers, she reaches cell 10 where Hermione and Aphasia are sitting quietly on the top right bunk, Mack’s sleeping on the bottom left, and Quinn is lying on her side, reading up above her. It’s like everything’s back to normal. Almost. Spencer knows it’ll never be the same around here again, but this might be as close as they can get for right now.

“Hey,” Spencer begins awkwardly, “sorry to interrupt.” She looks to Quinn and says, “I need to go back downstairs for a minute and I kinda don’t want to go alone.”

Quinn takes a moment to considers the request, then sets down _A Taste of Her Mother_ and slides over the bunk’s edge, both feet hitting the ground with a soft thud.

“Do you need any help?” Hermione asks, but Spencer shakes her head.

“You guys rest. Thanks, though.”

“Back soon,” Quinn says without looking at them and follows Spencer out.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Spencer says to her over the general chatter of the other inmates as they walk down the corridor. It makes more sense to keep heading in the direction of the staircase down, even though it means more bodies, both alive and dead. “I realized we haven’t really gotten to talk today.”

With the faux-kidnapping and the exhausting battle and all the heightened emotions, Spencer wants nothing more than to curl up in Quinn’s bed, strapped down with stupid seatbelts, and hide under the sheet together until the rest of the world melts away. To get back to that emotional place when all that mattered was how long it would take Spencer to be brave enough to touch Quinn’s skin, or how many times Quinn would kiss her shoulder blades before taking a breath. Just…to get back to _them_ , Spencer and Quinn. Past her time with Lucy, past all the fear and death and jealousy. To finally, truly be a real thing, however they want to define it. And, Spencer says to herself with a deep breath, there’s no time like the present.

“What are we even doing?” Quinn asks with mild exasperation, stepping over a stray Boomer leg as they pass cell 16. Lexa, Clarke, and Octavia seem to be deeply in the middle of being deeply in…each other. The room looks like a Yankee Candle store in full blaze.

Spencer looks away awkwardly and keeps walking, but she’s just as taken aback by Quinn’s question. It’s like a blow to the chest. Has Quinn moved on already? Does she not see this as a “thing” at all? This chemistry between them? It’s not like Spencer was making it up the whole time. How could she –

“Are you sure we don’t need weapons?” Quinn asks as a follow-up. Now Spencer’s even more confused.

 _Oh_. Their errand.

“Yeah,” she says, trying to recover as smoothly as she can. It doesn’t help that she almost slips on a pool of Boomer blood as they reach the main intersection. “I just want to go talk to the DYAD doctors again and follow up on a few things.”

Quinn stops just short of the door. “Things about me,” she says accusingly.

“No,” Spencer replies, and mirrors her irritated tone. “It’s mostly about Sue. And Lucy, I guess.”

Quinn huffs and keeps walking, reaching out for the already open door; a Boomer’s foot is conveniently caught in it, creating a gap about six inches wide. “Of course it is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Spencer says.

Quinn pulls on the door and holds it open wide. “Everyone loves Lucy,” she says, as if she’s said it a hundred times before, and starts down the stairs.

“Hey,” Spencer argues back, standing at the top looking down at her. “Not everyone.” They stand for a moment, then she adds, “Not like that.”

Quinn lets out a deep breath and mulls this over. With a gesture of her head, she prompts Spencer onward as they continue down into the belly of the beast once more.


	64. The Mourning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

It turns out it’s much easier to get into DYAD with a key card. No severed head or trash chute required this time.

Quinn and Spencer pass through the lobby quickly and head down the long hall toward the room where Spencer had recovered from her injuries before. They find one of the Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins first, though – the one not dead or having sex with Raven in the engine room.

“Hey!” the doctor says, “You’re not allowed to be down here. How the hell did you get in here? I’m calling security.”

_“That won’t be necessary.”_

They hear Dr. Cormier before they see her, but then she emerges from a narrow hallway Spencer hasn’t been able to explore yet. “They’re with me.”

“They don’t have clearance!” Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins protests. “They’re criminals!”

Dr. Cormier holds up a hand, offering her point. “I think we’re all criminals here. Don’t you?”

But her associate isn’t having it. “Some more than others. I’m calling Sue.”

“Actually,” Spencer cuts in, “that’s why we’re here. To talk about Sue. There’s no point in calling her. She won’t answer.” Spencer lets that sink in before continuing. “Is there somewhere we can sit down? All of us. There’s a lot to go over and not much time.”

The two doctors exchange looks, then Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins says, “I’ll go get the others and bring them to the conference room.”

A few minutes later, Spencer, Quinn, the two surviving doctor wives, Raven, Dr. Cormier _(Delphine, was it?)_ , and Cosima are all face to face around a long, wooden table. Spencer doesn’t know everyone here well enough to be sure she can trust them, but they don’t have much of a choice now. If these people are all anti-Sue, then that’s good enough for her.

“Is this everyone you trust on this ship?” Spencer asks the adults.

“I couldn’t find Becky,” Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins says.

“Where’s your wife?” Delphine asks her colleagues, but they both appear not to know.

“Yeah, they’re both upstairs and occupied at the moment,” Spencer says vaguely.

“What’s up, guys?” Cosima asks. She sounds sincerely curious and non-threatening, and Spencer feels good about trusting her. If they’re really out of the loop on all the terrible shit that’s gone down, then they probably aren’t part of the big, evil machine that’s run the show. Probably.

“A lot’s happened today,” she begins. “Thank you again for helping me earlier. I’m not sure how much all of you know, or if you even know the same things, so I want to make sure we’re all on the same page here.” She makes eye contact with each one in turn, then with Quinn, before proceeding. “First things first, Sue Sylvester is no longer in command of the _Uterius_.” That gets some worried glances out of them. “The prisoners revolted and took over the ship. Sue, Becky, Buffy, and Greggs are locked away, and all the other guards are dead.”

“Not possible,” says the Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins who’s sitting at the far end of the table. “There are always more guards.”

“Not anymore,” Spencer replies. “We took out the disgusting bathtubs of goo down the hall and destroyed all the backups. No more Cylons.”

“If you don’t believe us,” Quinn adds, “there’s quite the trail of bodies upstairs. You’re welcome to go check it out. My sister’s had a most exciting day.”

 _That’s putting it mildly_.

“So, what,” the other Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins says testily, “You’re holding our wife hostage? What do you want?”

Spencer’s heart sinks. _Oh my god, they don’t know._ She wasn’t expecting to have to be the bearer of this news. She doesn’t want to do this.

“I…I’m so sorry,” she begins carefully. “I thought you already knew.” Spencer takes a shallow breath. “Your wife died sometime this morning, we think, or maybe last night.” The rest of the air leaves the room in that moment. The widows gasp in disbelief as their collective world shatters. Somehow, Spencer keeps talking. “Her body is still upstairs in the Infirmary -- “

The two doctors are on their feet and halfway out the room before Spencer can even finish her sentence. Raven, Cosima, and Delphine all stand up to go after them, but Spencer gets up and holds a hand out to stop them, “No, wait. Let them go. _You_ have to figure out what you’re going to do when they get back.”

“What do you mean?” Delphine asks.

“Let me guess,” Cosima says. “The spiders killed the doctor.”

“Why does everybody keep talking about spiders?” Raven asks.

All eyes turn to Delphine, who falls back into her chair and covers her face with her hands.

Spencer places her palms flat against the table, arms straight, looming large as the others sit back down. “They ate half of her leg, and she bled out all over the Infirmary,” she confirms.

 _“OH GOD,”_  Delphine cries into her hands. Raven’s sitting in stunned silence, horrified by the revelation.

“Fuck,” Cosima mutters as her forehead falls against her hand. “Fuck!” She removes her glasses and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket, then turns to her girlfriend. “What are we gonna do?”

Raven sits up, piecing something together. “What do you wanna bet it’s these spiders who messed with the gravity last night?” she asks angrily. “Somebody shredded the wires.”

“Yeah, that’s what we think, too,” Spencer says, then looks at Delphine. “Are there any more?”

The blonde doctor sniffles and dabs at her eye with her thumb. “We have about thirteen-hundred of them, Spencer, so what do you think?”

 _“We?”_  Raven interjects. Nobody’s telling her anything, and she doesn’t like feeling stupid. “Who the hell is _‘we?’_ ”

“DYAD.” Spencer points an arm toward the door. “I think Becky has been sneaking into your secret spider lab for the last six months and letting them out to come kill prisoners upstairs, that’s what I think!” She’s mad now, tired of the condescension when she’s the one with all the current information. “She called herself ‘Queen of the Spiders’ and unleashed a swarm of death on us while we were all trapped in the cafeteria. So yeah, I think you need to take us to wherever you say these spiders are so we can all see just what we’re dealing with -- right now, before they get back.”

Cosima shoots daggers at Delphine. “You told _Becky_ about your pet project and not me?”

Delphine rolls her eyes and sighs in frustration as she gets up and starts for the door “I didn’t tell Becky shit.” She leads the other four down the narrow hall to the far end and around a sharp turn to the right. Spencer recognizes it now – they’re back at the trash chute opening. Next to it, directly across from a supply closet, is a hidden, hinged panel in the wall. Delphine presses on it to release the door latch, and it swings open, revealing a key card reader.

Cosima exhales, betrayed, and crosses her arms. “I don’t even know what to think about you right now.”

Delphine ignores the comment and swipes her key card. There’s a small double beep, then the hiss of a large panel of the wall separating and sliding away. Spencer can see inside before she steps into the room – it’s large, white, and absolutely plastered wall to wall with glass tanks. They must be stacked ten high and twenty across, layered like tiles. The floor is littered with dozens and dozens of what appear to be the lids for the tanks, like they were ripped off and cast aside in a hurry. There’s a white island countertop in the middle of the room with some assorted papers and a microscope. Spencer definitely wants to read through the paperwork later. Right now the priority is making sure this room is in fact empty.

“How is this possible?” Delphine asks, looking around with a stunned expression. “How could they all escape? The room is sealed.”

“Guess not,” Raven says.

“Help me check the tanks,” Spencer says to Quinn. She and Cosima begin on opposite sides, looking into each one in turn. Fortunately, there isn’t a base lining of stuff to dig under, like sawdust, or even play structures or plants to hide behind. Just basic glass and some scattered pieces of string. No wonder they wanted out. They were probably getting bored to death.

“These are clear,” Quinn calls out as she finishes the bottom three rows on the left-hand side of the room. She grabs a nearby stool and slides it over, preparing to stand on it to check some tanks just out of reach.

“Do you guys have any idea how much stuff there is in here I could use?” Raven asks the other women as she looks around the room enviously. She sounds pissed, and Spencer isn’t sure why Raven’s focused on her vodka business right now. It seems a bit insensitive given that her lover’s wife just died.

“We’ve given you everything we can spare,” Delphine replies. “You know that.”

“Yeah, right,” Raven says. “I don’t think you’ll be needing these heat panels anymore.” She grabs a few lamps as well as some thick slabs of treated glass. “I need to get these to the engine room,” she says to Spencer.

“Right now?” Spencer looks away from the tank she was checking behind. “You’re not gonna help us?”

“I am helping, trust me,” Raven says. But it’s not good enough. “Look, find me in an hour, and I’ll explain everything. Bring Aphasia.”

That certainly catches Spencer off guard. “Why?”

“Just give me one hour. Tell her it’s almost ready.” And with that, Raven takes her armfuls of glass and bulbs and takes off down the hall toward the entrance of the lab.

“What’s ready?” Spencer calls, but it’s no use.

“This side’s clear,” Quinn says as she finishes the top row in the back of the room. “Did you find anything?”

“No such luck,” Cosima says, putting the lid back on an aquarium tank for no apparent reason than tidiness.

“Keep looking,” says Spencer.

Next to her, Delphine is still looking around the room in utter disbelief and sadness. Her ever-important secret project walked out the door and left her behind. “You killed them, didn’t you?” she asks quietly, but her voice is trembling. It’s quite unnerving.

“Only after they killed some of us,” Spencer says. “So, you can help us now -- make sure every last one is dead -- and we’ll help you when the doctors come back.”

“I’m not going to help you destroy my life’s work,” Delphine says.

“You don’t really have a choice,” Spencer says loudly. “Unless you want those doctors to tear you apart when they get down here. Quinn and I just might let them.”

Delphine looks to the door, but they’re not coming – yet. “So much for our deal, then?” she scoffs. “Remember? You agreed not to hurt the science, or us, and we agreed to help you.”

“That was before we knew you were responsible for a dozen prisoners dying!” Spencer says.

“She has a point,” Cosima says quietly.

“No,” Delphine says, not taking her eyes off Spencer. “You said it yourself, Becky is responsible for those girls. Not me. Or maybe we tell the doctors there are no spiders at all. Maybe it was you who killed their wife. From what I’ve seen, you’re certainly capable of dismembering someone. I think they’ll certainly believe that before ‘killer space spiders,’ especially when there is no evidence here to support it. Cosima will back up my story.”

Delphine and Spencer both look for Cosima’s reaction, but before she can pick a side, Quinn’s voice cuts in from behind them.

“You know what’s scarier than killer space spiders?” she asks casually. One by one, the other women turn to hear the answer. That’s when they see Quinn’s standing on a stool, three feet up in the air, with her jumpsuit unzipped and folded down at the waist. Her black bra matches the handle of the pistol pointed right at Delphine. (The ripples in the metal chambers also match the curves of Quinn’s abs, not that Spencer’s looking at that.) “Me.”

In the silence of the room, they can hear distant movement down the hall. The doctor wives are back. _“Where the hell did they go?”_  A door slams, then another, then some more angry words.

“Hey,” Cosima says gently, “nobody needs to get hurt here.”

“They’ll be here soon,” Quinn says, moving the gun’s aim between the two scientists from moment to moment. “And we’re going to have a nice talk about the truth and how to move forward with our day. If anybody moves or says something I don’t like, you will be shot. Spencer, please keep checking the tanks until they arrive.”

Spencer, regrettably, tears her eyes away from the sexiness that is Bossy With a Gun Quinn and scans the remaining twenty tanks or so on the back wall. The sounds of voices are getting closer. When the squeaking of shoes on the linoleum floors comes within range, Quinn calls out sweetly, “Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins! We’re in here! Near the trash chute!”

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Delphine glares.

“Watch me,” Quinn replies.

“What the –” one doctor starts as they both stumble into the room. Their faces are red and swollen, and they look like they’re having the worst day of their lives. It’s startling how much they seem to have fallen apart in just a mere fifteen minutes. “What’s going on? What is this?” She keeps looking around from Quinn to the gun to the scientists with their hands up, then to the many, many empty tanks.

Quinn is firmly in command of the situation. “Spencer and I came down here to have a little chat with you, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Isn’t it, Spencer?”

“That’s right,” she calls over her shoulder as she sweeps the corner of a tank on the end of the row.

“So, I suggest everyone spread out, get on your knees, and put your hands on your head so we can have that heart-to-heart about what happened here today.”

The women exchange looks but keep quiet and do as they’re told. Quinn takes a big step off the stool onto the large island counter in the middle of the room and nudges aside the microscope with her shoe to gain more stable footing.

“I’m sure you’ve all read my file,” Quinn continues. “So, you’re probably aware that I’m a convicted serial killer. I may not be the psychopath that my sister Lucy is, but I think it’s safe to say there’s something in our genes that makes us enjoy murdering people in cold blood. Would you agree with that assessment, Miss Genetic Scientist Cosima?”

“Yes,” Cosima replies. She sounds more tired than scared and doesn’t seem afraid to look Quinn in the eye – or look down the barrel of a gun.

“Excellent. I do love being right. Now, as soon as Spencer’s done checking these tanks, she’s going to ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them. If you don’t, or if you get them wrong, I’m going to shoot you. This is Sue’s gun, by the way, since you’re so fond of her. You should know she left me three bullets, after she shot your Spencer clone in the head and tried to shoot me.” Delphine and Cosima react quietly to this news but don’t interrupt. “Three bullets and four of you. That means we get to play Who Wants to Live?”

Spencer tries to tune out the insanity happening behind her and focus on the task. If she isn’t thorough in her search, if even one spider survives, the terror could continue indefinitely. So far, so good, though, and just a few left on the right-hand side to check.

“Can we ask questions, too?” one of the Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins says. “Like _where did my wife’s leg go?”_  She pushes the words through gritted teeth as her emotions catch up with her again.

“Fun fact,” Quinn says cheerfully, “Your scientist pal, here” – Quinn points the gun at Delphine again – “made thirteen _hundred_ killer spiders that eat people! Very ambitious.”

“What is she talking about?” the doctor asks Delphine, leaning over. “This was you?”

“And then your friend Becky,” Spencer continues, “got a key card to this room and decided to make herself – quote -- Queen of the Spiders – unquote – and let them out to kill everybody one by one, including Spencer, me, and of course your wife.”

“That little bitch,” the other doctor says. “I should’ve left her locked in there.”

Spencer’s ears perk up at this. “You’re the one who let her out?”

“I had no reason not to at the time. She kept banging on the door; I figured she locked herself in on accident. She isn’t exactly the sharpest tack in the shed.”

“Well, I guess neither are you,” her wife retorts.

It must’ve been after they left DYAD with the clone, Spencer realizes. That’s when Becky unleashed the massive horde on them in the cafeteria. If only the doctor had left her there, several inmates would still be alive, and they could’ve wiped the spiders out here and now on their own. Somehow. (In all honesty, she’s secretly glad that the killing-a-thousand-spiders part is already over.)

But now Spencer’s thinking about something else – something from right after the massacre. Something Vee said.

“Wait. So, whose key card _is_ this?” Spencer pulls the thin plastic out of her sock – the one with the silver stripe. It’s the one they got off Becky, the one that must open this room. The one that created all of these problems.

“You just said it was Becky’s,” Cosima offers.

“Yeah, but Becky got it from Vee, who got it from Aphasia. And Vee said that Aphasia stole it off ‘one of the doctors.’ ”

“This is one of those times,” Quinn chimes in, pointing the gun back at them, “when you don’t want to lie.”

The two wives look at each other in alarm. “It wasn’t _me!”_  they cried simultaneously. Then, as if reading the other’s mind, they seem to both realize what the only possible answer must be: It was their dead wife’s key card. “Did she know about this?” one of them asks Delphine. “What did you do to her?”

Cosima turns to Delphine, just as surprised as they are. “Is this true? Was she working with you?” It’s clear that she feels even more hurt now at the thought of her girlfriend bringing in some stranger instead of her. This woman must really love doing science, Spencer thinks, because Cosima’s about to cry again.

“No,” Delphine tells Cosima, then repeats, “No!” She looks at the doctors, then Quinn, holding a hand up in protest. “I swear it. I was working alone. You can check all of the paperwork. You’ll see it’s only my name on them. But I confess I had a backup key card in case I lost this one. It seemed too risky to have only one in case something happened to it. I kept it in my desk, but she must have found it and stolen it. I am embarrassed I didn’t even realize it was missing.”

One of the doctors wipes her eyes and says, “Maybe she discovered your horrible death zoo and was trying to stop you. Somebody should.”

Nobody argues with that.

Spencer considers this new angle, and another piece clicks into place. “What if the doctor told Dr. Umbridge! And Dr. Umbridge told The Doctor!”

Everyone’s brows furrow at that statement, even Quinn’s.

“There’s this guy,” Spencer clarifies, “he calls himself The Doctor. He travels around helping people, I guess? In some kind of time-traveling phone booth that can vanish into thin air. I’ve seen it, but I can’t explain it. Our friend Donna was with him,” – she looks at Delphine – “before your giant Satan spider ATE HER FACE OFF, and she said that he was contacted by Umbridge but she didn’t know why. What if Umbridge knew about the spiders because your wife told her, but she knew she wouldn’t get anywhere going over Sue’s head?”

One Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins looks at the other and asks quietly, “Did she ever say anything to you about this?”

“No, I…I don’t think so.” Her face scrunches as she tries to remember. Or tries not to cry. “I just don’t understand why she wouldn’t talk to us about this. She never kept secrets.”

“She was trying to protect us. Maybe she knew there wasn’t anything we could do that wouldn’t put us in danger.”

“So, she goes to _Umbridge_?!” the doctor cries in disbelief. “Why not just tell Sue?”

“Maybe she did tell Sue, and Sue had her killed for it.”

Delphine shakes her head. “Sue didn’t know about this experiment. Or, if she did, she never said anything to me about it.”

“Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself,” the doctor says to Delphine bitterly, and her wife squeezes her arm. Turning to face her, she cries out, “This is her fault, you know!”

“I tried to tell Sue,” Spencer says, getting them back on topic. “I told her there was a killer spider in my bunk right after I got here. I had no idea about all of this,” she gestures around the room, “but I wasn’t entirely wrong. Sue wouldn’t listen. She had some bullshit rationale for why people were disappearing. It didn’t faze her at all.”

“Sue only hears what she wants to hear,” Delphine says. “She sees what she wants to see. It’s been convenient a few times down here, because she loves plausible deniability so much.”

“And her intake bonuses,” Cosima adds.

Delphine doesn’t argue with that. “She doesn’t need to dig around and find out what’s going on. Maybe that’s why she’s still alive.”

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees. “That, and she’s banging the President of Space. No wonder Umbridge thought she couldn’t go over Sue’s head. I guess when the spiders somehow found out that they’d been discovered, they killed the people in the know before word could get out, but that didn’t include Sue because she was a non-believer.”

“Hang on…When the spiders ‘found out’?” Cosima asks.

“Yeah. We know they can understand English they hear and even write,” Spencer says, “so they could’ve overheard some conversations from anyone. They’ve been crawling around the ship for months. They even hid under my bed.”

Cosima adjusts her glasses. “So, you’re saying that our best working theory right now is that my girlfriend bioengineered thousands of super-intelligent carnivorous arachnids. _Without me_ ,” she adds pointedly. “They were accessed illegally by Becky who took the key card from Vee who took it from Aphasia who took it from a doctor. And when that doctor discovered the spiders, she told another doctor about it, who then sought help from _another_ doctor who refers to himself as THE Doctor. And then a few, key recon spiders – _spy_ -ders, if you will -- happened to somehow discover this information, report it back to the others, and orchestrate an en masse targeted consumption of all three doctors in question before word could get out.”

Spencer shuffles through all of that and offers up some corrections. “THE Doctor isn’t dead, but his friend is. And she wasn’t eaten by the little ones, she—”

“Right, right, right, sorry,” Cosima corrects herself. _“Helena.”_  She glares at her girlfriend again.

“But yeah, otherwise, that sounds about right,” Spencer says. “Don’t forget the part where for months before that, Vee had Becky use them to kill inmates in a gang war for control of the prison. They scheduled their attacks around a zero-gravity guard dodgeball tournament, and _those_ fall during the inmates’ period cycle, when the ship is surrounded by a giant, flesh-eating shark. Not to be confused with Sue’s annual Christmas reaping that she blamed on Ripley to cover her tracks.” She takes a deep breath and sighs. “There’s been a lotta death here.” These are the facts, she knows it; she’s lived it. But it’s just all so absurd when you say it out loud, like something out of the SyFy Channel. Very little about her life doesn’t feel fictional.

“Wow,” Delphine says, and then the room falls silent for a minute.

Quinn looks over her shoulder and asks, “Do I get to shoot anyone yet?”

“Not yet,” Spencer says, not taking her eyes off the adults. “We’ll see how round two goes. The good news is, it does look like all the spiders really are dead. So, now we get to talk about where to go from here.”

“Alright,” Delphine says coolly. “What do you want?”

“Well, you’re the one breeding armies of weaponized spiders, so you tell me.” Spencer’s patience is wearing thin. “Is this about money? Are you in some kind of unbreakable government contract or something? And now we’re back to the part where my girlfriend will shoot you if you say something we don’t like.”

Her heart is pounding, not from the violence and danger in the room, but from the balls it took to call Quinn her girlfriend. Out loud. In front of other people. Without discussing it with her first, Spencer’s realizing. And when she’s armed and could literally shoot Spencer with bullets. But it’s been five whole seconds now, and Spencer’s still breathing.

Quinn readjusts her hold on the gun and stands a little straighter.

“We are under contract, yes, for a significant portion of the prison’s annual budget.” Catching Cosima’s eye, Delphine corrects herself. _“I_ was under contract to continue Dr. Schecter’s work, as I told you. I’m required to share out my findings every three months.”

“Like what?” Spencer asks. “You obviously weren’t tracking them.”

Delphine lets the dig slide. “Primarily growth rates, intelligence markers, fertility rates, eating habits, and behavioral observations.”

Spencer’s eyes narrow slightly. “Sounds like you’ve got some new data for the Eating Habits section. I’ll tell you how to spell their names.”

“I’m very sorry about what happened, Spencer,” Delphine says. “But I am still under contract, and I need my supervisors to believe things are still progressing. Otherwise, I lose my job and probably get reassigned elsewhere.”

“Fine by me,” one of the doctors says, and her wife squeezes her arm. Spencer can’t tell if it’s to shush her or agree with her.

“She can’t leave,” Cosima speaks up, nervously eyeing the gun. “I need her here.”

“She lied to you,” Quinn says.

“Yeah, and I’m mad as hell,” Cosima says. “But I’m also sick.” The statement hangs in the room for a moment before she proceeds. “I have a serious, genetic condition that’s slowly killing me. Delphine is the only one who understands the coding sequence and my history and can engineer my treatment.”

“Not even them?” Quinn asks, pointing the gun at the two doctors.

“No,” Cosima says. “She stays, non-negotiable.”

It sounds honest enough, so Spencer’s willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Saving your life can trump breaking your trust.

“Fine,” Spencer says, giving a soft, apologetic glance to the doctors. “She stays.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Quinn asks.

“I can’t just abandon my work,” says Delphine.

Quinn aims the gun right between her eyes. “Oh, I think you can.”

“You don’t understand how this works,” Delphine starts, “I have to keep reporting that the spiders are alive and well.”

The deafening _crack_ of the bullet firing makes Spencer jump about a foot in the air. She cowers instinctively, hands covering her ears, then she quickly turns in horror to see just how dead Delphine is.

“How about no,” Quinn says, staring down with steely eyes. A small wisp of gray smoke escapes from the open barrel and dissipates into the air.

Delphine seems afraid to move or even look up. The bullet from the warning shot is lodged firmly in the white panel of the wall behind her head. Spencer’s both surprised and grateful that the room is so sturdily made. Tough enough for killer spiders not to be able to chew through, perhaps.

Delphine’s breathing fast but keeps her composure. “Even if you kill me, they’ll still use my notes to start other spider production facilities elsewhere. Unless I give them a reason not to.”

“She’s right,” Spencer says, holding a hand up to stop her newly minted girlfriend from blowing a hole in Delphine’s face. “You said this was just a first run. We just have to tell them the project is a failure in a way that doesn’t get you fired,” Spencer says. “Make it look like it’s a waste of their money so they give up.”

Delphine exhales and stares off to the side, thinking it through. “I could begin reporting incidents of illness or severe infighting. I would need to manipulate a few factors to show I tried everything I could to stop it. They have to believe that there was no way to salvage the project, or they’ll just try again in another location.”

“Can you do it?” Spencer asks.

“Yes,” Delphine says without hesitation, then takes another deep breath. “It would take probably…nine months to fabricate the appearance of a total failure in a way that seems organic. If they believe me, the project would be terminated.”

“No more killer spiders,” one of the doctors says quietly.

“No more killer spiders,” Delphine confirms.

“Then they’d better believe you,” Quinn says, readjusting her aim, “or _you’ll_ be terminated.”

It’s entirely possible Delphine is lying to save face and keep herself alive, Spencer knows, but they don’t have any better options than to believe her. “The project ends,” Spencer says, “and then what?”

“Hopefully, I get to focus entirely on my work with Cosima,” Delphine says.

“The medical treatments,” Quinn says.

Delphine looks at Cosima nervously, “That and…our other projects.”

“Yeah, about that,” Spencer jumps in with faux cheerfulness, “Let’s talk about cloning. Let’s talk about how and why you’ve been selling copies of me and m-- “ She catches herself and quickly decides twice in five minutes is pushing it. “-- Quinn to the highest bidder.”

“Technically, we sell Lucy, not Quinn,” Delphine corrects, then looks back at the gun apologetically and shuts up.

Cosima angles her body toward Spencer. “Yeah, it’s money, you said it. You guys are what keeps the lights on in here. Sue tells the doctors which prisoners are coded for production, then they get blood samples on intake and bring it to us to get started.” The doctors look embarrassed to have any part in this now but don’t speak up to refute the facts. “It’s really not very many, I don’t think, relatively speaking. We’ve done, what,” she looks at Delphine, “seven models in five years? We don’t even know what you look like until you’re fully grown. And sometimes even then there are abnormalities that make it hard to even know what your face is supposed to look like –”

“Hmm,” Quinn says, cocking the hammer on the revolver. “I don’t think I liked the sound of that.”

“Cosima,” Delphine shushes. “Please don’t make this worse than it already is.”

May the day never come again when Spencer hears someone refer to her as a genetic _model coded for production._ This whole situation has her frustrated to a point of exhaustion. Meanwhile, she can’t help but notice the more playful side of Quinn that’s come out with the gun. It reminds her of Lucy in her element, of course, but she wouldn’t ever dare say that out loud. If only Spencer could find that level of fun in all of this, herself. Maybe she wouldn’t hate everything about this.

“Well, you’ve been selling clones of people, so it’s already pretty bad.” Spencer runs a hand through her hair and exhales deeply. “I get that the ship needs money. I would like to keep eating, even fish sticks and stale waffles. But no more copies of me, and no more copies of Lucy. It’s fucking creepy. You said you have others, right? Stick to them.”

Cosima bends forward, supporting her weight with her knuckles on the floor as her head hangs down tiredly. Quinn’s assertion that they stay on their knees seems a bit much, even if it is for Spencer’s own safety. “What should we do with the ones we already grew?” she asks.

The word _grew_ replays in her ears about ten times before Spencer can form a response. “Yeah, um…Sue said you had, like, forty of them.”

The scientists look at each other, then up at Quinn, who firms up her stance. Delphine nods for Cosima to answer honestly.

“Closer to fifty. Of you, I mean.”

“Wow,” Spencer exhales, falling over and braving her hands on her knees. She’s probably going to throw up but stands up again anyway. “Sounds like I’m your best seller!” she spits angrily. She’d give anything for this to not be real, to not be something she now has to deal with. God only knows how many they’ve already sold – it’s a question for another day when her brain isn’t already overloaded. Who ever has to face the ethics of _this?_  She can’t bring herself to end their lives – venting them into space painlessly or otherwise – but the thought of putting _fifty_ more versions of herself out into the universe makes her unbearably queasy. Still, nausea is better than murder.

She exhales deeply and runs her hands over her face before mumbling, “So, fine. Sell them and be done with it. We need the money and I don’t want them here anymore. Do what you have to do.” She turns away and gives herself a moment to compose herself before continuing. “Sue said you weren’t making any more clones of Lucy. Please tell me she wasn’t lying.”

“That’s correct,” Delphine says. “They’re gone. We’re allowed to end production on one cloning line and begin another if there are declining sales or some other compelling reason to do so, as in Lucy’s case.” She stares Quinn down, as if taunting her to shoot her in the face. “Like with all the murdering.”

“Guess it was a bad batch,” Quinn agrees bitterly.

Delphine doesn’t back down. “When you were arrested, your face was all over the news. Anybody could’ve seen it. Any number of other girls with your face. What then? Do you have any idea what kind of problems that could create for our operation?”

“Wouldn’t want to get in the way of all the great work you’re doing here,” Quinn says facetiously. “I’m almost sorry I killed all of those people.”

“Well, you should be,” Delphine says. “DYAD had to pay off every news outlet within five hundred miles of Lima, Ohio to bury the story. Your parents as well. Your murder spree cost us nearly two million dollars. Not to mention the lives of all the families you ruined.”

Quinn steadies the gun again but aims it at Cosima. “Why stop now?” she says with a half-shrug, eyes wide. “Keep talking.” It’s a dare.

Spencer’s desperate to keep this from escalating and jumps in to bring it back around. “Sue’s the one who decides who gets cloned, right?” she asks. “But it could be anybody?”

“Scientifically speaking,” Delphine says, “yes, it can be mostly anyone, provided there aren’t extreme genetic factors that interfere with the process. So far, the only person Sue brought to us who was incompatible was a girl named Lexa. Her genetic sequence had been mutated by radiation so thoroughly that her blood had turned black. We decided not to pursue that line. Too many variables.”

Spencer’s a bit thrown by that. She’s met Lexa; she doesn’t seem like a mutant, just a candle freak.

“But for our business purposes,” Delphine continues, “we only work with certain prisoners. Ones who are brought here specifically to be replaced by a clone on Earth.” The look on Delphine’s face provides the unspoken words ‘ _like you.’_   “We produce the alpha for the swap, which is arranged through government back channels, then sell additional clones to private parties worldwide. Our numbers are limited to minimize exposure.”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says bitterly, “fifty doesn’t sound so limited to me.”

“She means we only produce clones of select people,” Cosima says. “I think there are…eight right now currently on board?” She looks to Delphine for confirmation.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Spencer remembers the blue files and what Sue said about “primers.” “Let me guess – Regina, Martha, Kat, Graham” – she swallows hard at that last one.

“That’s right,” Delphine says, looking a little suspicious as to how Spencer knows that.

Spencer takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. “It’s seven now.”

“I’m sorry?” Delphine says, not understanding.

“Graham’s dead,” Spencer says. Now seems as good a time as any to come clean about this, considering Quinn’s holding them at gunpoint. “She died in the battle upstairs.” _Close enough._ “I’m sorry.”

Cosima and Delphine sigh and exchange looks, but don’t seem ready to release any wrath on Spencer. “I’m sorry, too,” Delphine says. She sounds genuinely sympathetic.  

Cosima takes off her glasses and cleans them on her lab coat. “Let’s hope no one comes looking for her.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says and exhales loudly, running a hand through her hair. She thinks on all this for a minute, taking a few steps to pace beside the counter Quinn’s standing on. Right now, these needs and resources have to fit together. “There has to be a way for all of us to get what we want and work together.” She looks at the scientists first. “You want to keep doing your experimental research as legitimately as possible to further your careers and keep it above board, meet your contracts, and get paid.”

“Yes,” they both agree.

“We want to live happy, healthy lives where no one’s locked up and no one else gets hurt,” Spencer says. “And you,” she looks at the doctors, “…Honestly, I have no idea what you want.”

Right now, it looks like they both want to crawl into a hole and not come out for a year. “I want my love to not be dead,” one of them whispers as her head drops toward the floor and she starts crying again. Her wife scoots a bit closer, enough to take her hand and squeeze it hard.

“I’m so sorry, both of you, for what happened.” Spencer means it, though the words seem incredibly shallow and empty right now. If only she had tried a little harder somehow to solve this, to stop the spiders before today, then a lot of people wouldn’t be dead right now. It’s easy to fall into the guilt trap and tell herself the dead doctor is her fault. Delphine should be the one apologizing to them, not her. But it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. Spencer shakes it off, saying, “We need you upstairs to help take care of us, if you’re willing to stay. I think everyone respects you and how you help us, and you’ll be safe.”

One of the doctors scoffs through her tears and says, _“Yeah, real_ safe _,_ I’m sure. No thanks.”

Her wife sniffles and wipes her face with her mascara-stained white coat sleeve. “Honey, she’s right. We should stay.”

She scoffs in disbelief. “You actually want to stay in this shithole. With a bunch of escaped criminals.”

“No, but we don’t have anywhere else to go. At least not until Raven’s finished her project. And these are still people, just like us. We promised to help take care of these women, no matter what.” The second doctor pauses, then adds gently, “And I think it’s what she would’ve wanted.”

“To stay in the mechanical, _flying uterus_ of anarchy and crime where she died?” She sniffles again, desperately needing a tissue.

Leaning forward to press her forehead against her wife’s temple, the first doctor smiles. “We could do worse.” They hold their pose for a moment of quiet comfort, squeezing softly and releasing as they breathe. “I’m gonna stay with you tonight.”

The other doctor opens her eyes, then looks down, struggling with how to react to that. “No, it’s okay. It’s your night with Raven. We need to stick to the schedule.”

“Hey –” Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins takes her wife’s chin in her hands and looks into her eyes. “I’m not leaving you alone right now.” She kisses her softly and runs her fingers through the long, blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Spencer gets lost in the moment watching them, not even noticing that Cosima and Delphine are doing the same. To see the kind of love they have for each other is truly moving, and Spencer can only imagine what it would be like having not just one person care for you like that, but two at the same time. The fullness that must come from that feeling. The sense of feeling balanced and complete by having not just one side of yourself addressed, but two. There’s a longing deep within her that Spencer can’t quite reach, a wish for something more, and she feels closer to it watching these women. But this isn’t the time for feelings.

“Okay then,” Spencer says, pulling herself together to refocus. “Good, everyone’s staying.”

“Who’s in charge upstairs now?” one of the doctors asks. “All due respect to the people with the gun, I don’t particularly feel comfortable taking orders from inmates.”

“Then just take orders from my gun,” Quinn says, cocking her head.

“We don’t want any more fighting,” Spencer says, then quickly keeps talking before Quinn can insinuate Spencer’s only speaking for herself. “I think we’re going to have kind of a council-slash-committee thing to make decisions with some representatives of different interests,” Spencer says, trying to make it sound as legit and responsible as possible. “I don’t see why you couldn’t be a part of that.”

“I know you said you locked Sue up or whatever,” the other doctor says, “but she’s not going to just give up this place.”

“I still have two bullets,” Quinn smiles.

Spencer cuts in. “Which I really don’t think you’re going to need after all, okay? So, can you just put it down now? Please?” But Quinn doesn’t move. “They’re helping,” Spencer says, louder. “Let’s just figure this out and go.”

“If Sue’s not dead,” Cosima asks, “what’s your next move, guys?”

“We’re keeping her alive,” Spencer says, and Quinn shoots her a look. “As long as we need her for something.”

“A punching bag, maybe?” Cosima says, but Spencer’s not listening.

She’s just had an idea.

“Hang on. Here’s…a really weird proposal,” she begins carefully. “Sue is the public face of the prison, right? So, we still need her, at least until we can figure out how to work around that. And obviously the President will notice if she goes missing. But I agree that Sue’s never going to let us be free in here. I don’t trust her at all.” Nobody speaks up to disagree. “And she might have information we can use if we can get it out of her. So, what if we just use her for her face and keep the crazy locked away?”

“What are you suggesting?” Delphine asks.

“I can cut her head off,” Quinn says.

_Why does this run in the family?_

Spencer shoots Quinn a look and takes a breath, resuming her focus on the scientists. “Do you think you could make a clone of Sue?” She holds the remaining air in her lungs and waits tensely for the response. Spencer doesn’t know what else they could try. Even just a cloned Sue only buys them time, but if they can’t…

“More?” Delphine clarifies.

Spencer blinks. _“More?!”_

Quinn’s arm drops as she says without a hint of surprise, “You’ve already cloned Sue.”

“Yes, of course,” Delphine says.

 _“Christ,”_  Spencer says, unable to stop herself, “is there anybody on this goddamn ship who hasn’t been cloned?!”

“Um,” Cosima stumbles, looking awkwardly at Delphine, then at the floor.

“Yes,” Delphine tells Spencer, “of course.” A beat passes, then she says, “Technically, Sue is already a clone.” She looks to Cosima, who nods along. “But we have the original sequence on file, yes.”

“Wait, _she’s_ a copy?” Spencer says in shock, like she just found out her closest friend was secretly a Republican. “She’s not the original Sue?”

Quinn turns her head at that and glares. “Something wrong with that? She’s still a person.”

Spencer cringes slightly, forgetting she’s in the presence of cloned company. Including herself.

“Yeah.” Cosima pushes up her glasses. “The original Sue – or whatever her name was – was in a lab down on Earth decades ago as part of an experiment called Project Runaway. They put dozens of these girls all over the globe and kept track of them to see if they would somehow find each other, like if they were drawn together by some cosmic force or innate biological drive or something.” Cosima’s eyes move from Spencer to Quinn. “She was the prototype for this whole experiment that led to you.”

It certainly rings true enough – Lucy had an innate desire to find the other copies of herself, even before she knew about the cloning. Quinn seems to pick up on this point, herself. “Were they?” she asks. “Finding each other, I mean.”

“Many of them were, I think, yes,” Delphine says. “Though not always for the same purposes. Friendship, cohabitation, familial intimacy, sex, employment, financial assistance –”

Spencer balks, “They were having _sex_ with each other?”

“You’ve met Sue, right?” Cosima asks. “She thinks she is the most beautiful creature in the universe, other than that inspector she’s obsessed with. Sue jumped at the chance to fuck herself.”

“Ew.” There isn’t anything else she can say to that, but the scowl on her face speaks volumes. Spencer’s seen a copy of herself this very day, but having sex with it was the furthest thing from her mind. Maybe because they’d both been beaten within an inch of their lives. Or maybe because she’s an ethical, decent human being.

“It’s not that crazy,” Quinn offers. The gun droops a bit as she offers her point to Spencer. “People fuck themselves all the time. You should know,” she digs.

 _“By_ yourself is not the same as _with_ yourself,” Spencer argues, but even she isn’t sure about the semantics anymore.

Cosima turns to Delphine and asks quietly, “Is it technically masturbation if it’s to a genetic identical?”

“I’m honestly not sure,” she replies.

“I mean,” Cosima continues quietly, “it’s a different body than your own, so I would think it’s not, but if --”

“OKAY NO MORE SEX TALK,” Spencer interrupts. “The point is, if we can get a clone of Sue and teach her the basics of how this place works – the new way, where we’re not locked up – we can use her as a fake warden until we figure out our next move. It could work.”

“We have at least ten more growing in the back,” Delphine offers, “if you need a blank slate.”

“I don’t think they have time for the language acquisition phase,” Cosima says. “You guys might have to go with a slightly  used model here.” Glancing at Delphine to make sure she’s not too off base with her suggestion, she says, “You could try one from Room 23.”

Quinn and Spencer look at each other. “What’s Room 23?” Spencer asks warily.

“Outside DYAD, in the hall where you came in,” Delphine says. “It’s where Sue takes the President for their…intimate encounters. There are two other Sues who live in there permanently just for those purposes.”

Spencer makes a face at that mental picture. She can’t decide if she wishes they’d taken the time earlier to check the other rooms on the hall or if she’s very, _very_ glad that they didn’t.


	65. Two For the Price of One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer doesn’t know if she’s supposed to knock first or what. She’s also not even sure how to open the door, as it’s locked with another retinal scanner. But fortunately, Sue’s DYAD card works just as well, and the white door whooshes open without warning.

“Madam Pres—AHH!! Who are you!” cries a Sue wearing what appears to be a green satin pajama suit nearly identical to red track suit the regular Sue wears.

Spencer’s only seen inside three other rooms on this hall today, but this one may be the most bizarre yet – even more than the Cylon regeneration chamber. The majority of the space is taken up by a giant bed, even wider than a king-size from back home. It’s lined with a leopard-print blanket that could be real fur, for all she knows. There are chains with wrist-cuff rings on them coming from the walls above the headboard, which itself is a dozen columns of metal bars. A tall nightstand dresser beside the bed is lined with drawers holding god knows what – lingerie? Toys? Weapons? All of the above?

In the corner, a few empty cafeteria trays sit piled up near the toilet. It looks like the scientists were right – the two Sues do live in here, having sex and doing little else, apparently. There isn’t even a bookshelf or a TV, nothing to pass the time.

It seems cruel, but then again, at least they have each other. It isn’t Solitary, like what Spencer and friends have done to the real Sue now.

“Where’s Sue?” asks the other one, who’s dressed in a purple satin pajama suit. “Did she send you to have sex with us?”

“No! God, no,” says Spencer, taking a step back at the very idea of it. “I’m Spencer. This is Quinn. Sue sent us to talk to you.” It’s a lie, but it seems like a good starting place.

“Excellent,” says Purple Sue. “I love talking.” She lies down on the bed sideways, propping her head up on her elbow. “Tell me what a bad, bad girl I’ve been and how you want to punish me for –”

“No!” Spencer cries out. “Not that kind of talking! Regular talking!”

Green Sue sits down next to her sis--…the other one, and they exchange confused looks. “What else would we talk about?”

“Well, many things,” Spencer starts. This whole thing is horrifically awkward, and she doesn’t even know what she’s working with. “Do you two ever…go upstairs?”

More confused looks. “Not following,” says the green one.

“To the prison,” Spencer prompts.

“What’s a prison?” asks the purple one.

Spencer’s eyes go wide. _Oh boy._ For a moment, it seems sadly ironic, since these women have probably been locked up, themselves, their whole lives. But Spencer’s able to push past that and realize what a great opportunity she has here. If they have no prior knowledge, no context, then Spencer can make them believe whatever she wants.

“It’s the place where Sue comes from,” she says, as if talking to a five-year-old. “And she needs your help to take care of it. I come from there, too; so does Quinn. Sue was living there with us, but then she had an accident.” Spencer’s brain spins, trying to quickly decide the best course of action.

“What kind of accident?” asks Purple Sue quite genuinely.

“It was terrible,” Spencer says gravely. “She was having sex with one of my friends upstairs, and she was getting choked, but it went on a little too long. Sue forgot her safe word, and she ended up dying.” Spencer tries to make it sound like a life lesson given to a kindergarten class, like the warden just stuck her finger in an outlet.

“Fuck me hard!” cries Green Sue, but it seems to just be a dramatic expletive of concern from a woman with an understandably limited vocabulary.

“That’s awful!” Purple Sue stands up and shares a sympathetic expression with her counterpart. “How can we help?”

“Well, now we need one of you to come and be upstairs with us sometimes. Not all of the time,” she quickly clarifies, “just when somebody comes to visit, like the President.” Both women seem to perk up at the mention of her name. “But the thing is, we need to do some pretending.”

“Ah,” says Green Sue. “I am an expert at role playing. Would you like me to be a drill sergeant? Or a disappointed mother? I’m well practiced at Martha Slewgurt.”

“She’s very good,” Purple Sue agrees.

“Um,” Spencer says, “thank you, but what I need is for one of you to pretend to be regular Sue.”

“Oh.” Green Sue looks disappointed, like it won’t be enough of a challenge.

“Whenever the President or someone else comes to visit,” Spencer continues, “we need to make them think that regular Sue is fine and that it was one of you who had the choking accident.”

Now they look concerned. “You want one of _us_ to be dead?”

Quinn raises an eyebrow. “You can both be dead, if you’d prefer.”

Spencer sighs and shoots her a look. “What she means is, now that you know what the situation is, we need you to go along with it.” Spencer really doesn’t want to threaten anyone else with death today. “If you won’t help us, we can go talk to other Sues just like you who’ll do the roleplaying really well, I’m sure. And then the President will start going to have sex with _them_ instead, and – “

“Okay!” Purple Sue cries out. “Fine, fine, I’ll do it. I’ll be the fake dead one. I’ll stay here alone.”

“Shouldn’t it be me?” asks Green Sue. “You’re the one with all the experience. You go be the warden.”

Spencer looks at Green Sue. “I thought you were the big role-player?”

“I get choked a lot,” clarifies Purple Sue. “It’ll be a believable story. Maybe I was practicing my breath play techniques and waited too long to use my safe word.”

“Hillary,” Green Sue says, nodding.

 “I don’t know what it means,” says Purple Sue, “but Sue says it’s very attractive and powerful.”

“Great, we’ll go with that,” Spencer says, taking a step back toward the door. “Okay, we need to go take care of some things, but we’ll come back to get you in a few days and show you around upstairs and explain what you need to know. Thanks.”

And without another word, Spencer gets the fuck out of that old lady sex den as fast as she can and scans the door closed with the key card. It just goes to show, she thinks, your weirdest day can always get a little weirder.

****************

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I’m glad you brought the gun.”

Spencer’s following Quinn back up the stairs to the main floor and laughing a little, in spite of herself. All things considered, both meetings had gone very well. They got what they came for: answers, a confirmation that the spiders were finally eradicated, and a plan to move forward. Added bonus: Nobody died!

Quinn sure proved to be useful in the heat of the moment. Spencer had a hunch that Quinn never took the gun out of her uniform in the first place. Not that Spencer wanted things to get violent – she remained unarmed, herself --but it did make her feel a bit better to have that backup just in case. Even the kind that could get them vented into space.

Quinn pauses as she reaches the top step. “That’s the reason you invited me. To be your muscle?”

This makes Spencer stop as well. “No. I told you, I wanted to talk. I wanted to spend time with you.”  

Quinn’s eyes narrow, considering this, and says, “Good talk.” Then, pushing the door open, she steps over a Boomer body and turns right to start down the cell block corridor.

“Quinn!” Spencer catches up to her in front of cell 20, which is currently empty. It seems to be a blessing to not have an audience right now, but then Spencer realizes it’s because everyone who lived there – Corky, Violet, and Alex Vause – is dead. “What’s going on?”

Quinn stops and turns around with tears in her eyes, staring her down hard. “I don’t know what you want from me!” She sounds exasperated, like this has been eating at her for quite a while. “I thought I could figure it out, but I guess I’m not Ivy League material after all. I was supposed to go to Yale, by the way. Not that you ever asked.” 

Spencer recoils a bit at the statement. It stings because it’s true – she assumed Quinn wasn't particularly aspirational, much less Ivy League. Pushing aside her embarrassment (and envy), Spencer tackles the bigger question, running back through the various events of the day that Quinn could be referring to. She's never seen Quinn express this much emotion about, well, anything.

At Spencer’s silence, Quinn runs a hand through her hair, laughing in frustration, and attacks again. “God, you don’t even get it, do you? What am I supposed to think, Spencer? You made it perfectly clear you’d rather spend _two months_ running around chasing spiders instead of getting to know me. But why am I even surprised. Everything is about you.”

Spencer’s mouth falls open, unsure of what to say. This stings, and she’s not entirely sure she doesn’t deserve it. “I didn’t…No, it’s not!”

“Could’ve fooled me. But here’s a tip you can scribble in your journal for the next psycho murder crisis: If you want the gun, just ask. Don’t waste my time.”

“I just told you that’s bullshit!” Spencer says. “And don’t act like you weren’t having fun down there threatening them.”

“I was,” Quinn says, annoyed, “until someone decided to make me look stupid and tell me to stop. Congratulations on asserting yourself in front of the big girls. Guess you’re the big boss lady now.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you look bad,” Spencer says. She’s more than a little put off by the insinuation but tries to keep the higher ground. “I just didn’t want anybody to accidentally get shot when we were getting good information. I’ve never seen you like that. I didn’t know what you were going to do. According to you, you kill people all the time!”

Quinn pauses for a beat. “You don’t trust me.”

Spencer’s mouth opens to respond, but she holds the words in to reconsider them first. “We’re learning how to work together.” She’s aiming for diplomatic, but it comes out sounding like a patronizing platter of crap and she knows it.

“You’re the good cop now?” Quinn says bitterly. “I’m not looking for a business partner. I do just fine on my own.”

“Do you?” Spencer says out of spite, giving a little shrug gesture to their location.

“Yes!” Quinn sounds exasperated. “You don’t know me, Spencer. You made such a big deal out of spending this ‘long, horrible day’ trying to find me, but I’m not some Disney princess to be rescued! I can take care of myself. I killed every single spider that came for me in that room. Last I checked, you couldn’t say the same.” She takes a deep breath and looks away for a moment, collecting her thoughts, then turns back. “You don’t get to be mad at me for not needing to be saved. Not everybody gets to be a hero.”

Now Spencer’s the one fighting the sting in her eyes. “Wow…I thought I was…I was just trying to help you,” she says finally. “Because I _care_ about you. Because I didn’t want you to be _dead!”_

“I’M FINE,” Quinn shouts again. She turns away in frustration, running a hand through her hair and wiping her sweaty palms on her uniform. Her body swivels to face the empty cell as she chooses her next words, and she grabs hold of the bars to lean against them slightly. “Today is not the day I needed you, Spencer.”

Quinn may as well have fired the gun on her, the way those words rip through her. Spencer’s eyes fall to the floor as her body tenses instinctively. This conversation is not going at all according to plan. Whatever the fuck she thought the plan was.

Quinn straightens her fingers and presses the heel of her palm against the bars, then retracts, watching her fingers curl and flex. The mindless action seems to center her body as her mind drifts further away. “Did you ask for the transfer because you wanted to be Lucy’s fuck puppet, or because you wanted to get away from me?” Her words are so quiet, they just hang in the air, not even reaching the back wall of the cell in front of her.

“That was Umbridge!” Spencer says defiantly. “Of course I didn’t want to leave you! She was a psychopath who saw we were getting close and wanted to hurt me for some fucked up reason we’ll never know. I _never_ asked to leave 10.” Spencer watches Quinn continue gripping the bars, considering her words. It’s not going to make things any better by lying, so she takes a breath and adds, “I did ask to be put with Lucy when they said they were transferring me a second time, but only because I thought she was part of the spider thing and I wanted to keep an eye on her.”

Quinn exhales sharply but doesn’t turn around. “I bet you did.”

Now Spencer’s the one getting mad. “You know what? I’m getting pretty sick of this ‘Everybody loves Lucy more than me’ pity party. Yes, I slept with her, and yes, I liked it. But I only did it in the first place because she was there and she looks _exactly_ _like_ you.”

Quinn turns around now, emotional but trying to hide it. “But she’s _not_ me.” She leans back against the bars and slides one foot up them so her knee is bent. “Maybe you don’t get that, but it matters.”

“Of course I get it,” Spencer says.

Quinn’s eyes narrow, then she looks away. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

Spencer knows she has messed up here, but the only way she can make amends is with actions, not words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I think you’re interchangeable. You’re not.” It’s awkward for a moment, as Quinn still isn’t meeting her eyes. “But please don’t tell her I was thinking about you the whole time,” Spencer adds, then gives a half-smile. “She’ll probably kill me.”

“Not if I don’t kill you first,” Quinn replies with the same tone.

“I guess the jealous streak must be genetic.”

Quinn bristles at the comment. “Lucy plays games. She likes to pretend like she owns girls and make them do things, or not. I think she gets off on the power of it. And in her mind, if you belong to her, then yeah, she’ll fight for you. But it comes with a price.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow. “And you’re nothing like that? You don’t fight for people?”

“I don’t ‘own’ people, no,” Quinn replies condescendingly. “And I don’t play games. It’s part of why ‘Mistress Berry’ and I never worked out. I just wanted her to be herself.” She reaches into her bra and pulls out her cigarettes and lighter, firing up one and taking a long drag. “Lucy likes to take things. I prefer when someone makes their own choice to give it. I told you that in the bathroom.”

_I remember._

Quinn flicks some ashes away and looks at the burning end thoughtfully. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Spencer’s brow furrows. “What?”

“What do you want?” She asks it harmlessly, like a close friend with no stake in the outcome. “You’re a free woman now. You practically run this place. You can probably have anything.”

Spencer laughs and turns away, “Yeah, right.” It strikes her, as she says it, that she knows exactly what she wants after all, she just hadn’t let herself think the words until now. Flashes of the doctors enter her mind, like bursts of memory -- but, instead, like flashes of things that could possibly become. Sitting in the cafeteria eating lunch with someone on either side of her, people who care about her and challenge her and make her feel safe and full and alive. But as fast as the visual appears, it fades out of her grasp. “I don’t see that happening.”

“Try me.”

Spencer’s still facing down the hall, not wanting to look Quinn in the eye. It would make it harder to admit what’s in her heart. Instead, she offers a truth. “I never wanted to pit you and Lucy against each other.”

“You didn’t.” Quinn exhales a long cloud of smoke. “We’ve always had a weird thing. Before you.” She flicks another ash cluster and asks, sounding honestly curious, “Did she say you have to choose?”

Spencer gives pause and replays the conversations she’d had with Lucy about their arrangement, or whatever it should be called. They never really defined it. But there is certainly one thing that had been defined. “She said ‘I belong to her,’ whatever that means.”

Quinn exhales a soft laugh in a puff of smoke. “I bet you never saw yourself being the prison gang type.”

“Yeah, well, apparently nobody else sees me that way, either.”

“Give them time,” says Quinn. “The other Past Hells will warm up to you. You haven’t been in very long.”

“I’m not,” Spencer starts, but then she realizes Quinn knows something she doesn’t. Has she been a member of this gang the whole time? She didn’t even know there _were_ gangs until an hour ago. “It hasn’t been very long since my initiation.” She throws it out there, hoping Quinn will take the bait and give her some much-needed clarity around this.

“I remember,” Quinn says icily. “I had a front row seat.”

… _OH._

_The four-way._

It wasn’t just group sex, it was a literal gang bang.

Quinn continues as Spencer’s mind spins. “I had already talked to Aphasia about pulling you in. I thought that was what you wanted. She did, too. She said she told you about the war and you seemed to care.” Quinn sighs quietly. “But I guess we’re still getting to know each other.”

“Hey,” says Spencer. Quinn’s comment feels unfair. “Maybe if you’d talked to _me_ about it, I would’ve known what the hell was going on.”

“Yeah,” Quinn says, acknowledging her fault in the matter. “We don’t talk about that stuff with Mack around. She wouldn’t get it.”

Spencer nods; it makes sense. Mack’s got too big of a boner for her gang leader’s craft show to care about things like life and death. Still, it’s more than a little frustrating knowing she was kept out of this loop. Did everyone assume someone else had given her the Prison Gang Information Packet? Spencer definitely would’ve joined The Sins if she’d been fully briefed on her options, especially before she transferred to Lucy’s cell. At the very least, she would have weighed all the information and made the choice for herself. Vee’s trying to run an evil smuggling empire, and Lucy’s group seems to be about power dynamics and Play-Doh. Aphasia’s a little nuts, but she’s smart and committed and actually fighting for something. Spencer respects that.

But it’s probably too late now. She figures there’s no reneging on this kind of commitment to Lucy Fabray even though she didn’t fully know what she was consenting to. Spencer feels a little duped. Hopefully the gang thing isn’t a big deal around here. She’s eaten meals with mixed groups of Aphasia and Lucy’s girls before. Nothing really has to change, right? And at least she’s a part of something. It’s silly, but Spencer has to admit she feels a bit better knowing she was actively being recruited by multiple groups. They do see her as valuable here. It’s good to feel wanted.

“So,” Spencer offers as casually as she can, “what’s the current prison policy on dating outside your gang? Frowned upon, no big deal, death penalty…?”

Quinn gives a small smile as she flicks the cigarette again, clearly amused by how smooth and blasé Spencer is trying to be about this. “Making plans?”

“I’m considering my options.”

“I thought you were the new warden,” Quinn says. “You should do whatever you want.” There’s a quiet pause while Quinn ponders her next statement. “I’m not going to ask you to choose. You don’t need to.” She takes another breath and adds, “I don’t want you to.”

Spencer can’t believe what she’s hearing. All this time, she thought this crazy triangle of sexy murderers was going to end in, well, murder. Or at least some severe blood loss. But now it sounds like she can have her Quinn and eat Lucy too, if she’ll allow herself the terrible play on words.

“Whatever you want to do with Lucy,” Quinn says, “that’s your business. But do it because she’s Lucy. Please don’t pretend she’s me. I’m right here.”

“Deal,” Spencer says, letting a small smile show. “And same to you, if you want to…” she adds in a rush, wanting to make sure the generosity goes two ways.

Both of Quinn’s eyebrows rise as she blows out a long stream. “I have no intention of sleeping with Lucy.”

“She’s _really_ hot,” Spencer offers, then smiles again. They stand for a moment awkwardly; the tension is broken but Spencer’s not quite sure what comes next.

Quinn thinks for a moment, then says, “You could go over on Wednesdays.”

Spencer’s mouth falls open for a moment, confused. She was so distracted by that familiar mental image of Quinn slapping Mack’s ass til she bruises that Spencer almost missed the wording. “Go over?”

“Yeah. I figure it makes sense for you to move back in,” Quinn says, taking in one last cloud of smoke before smashing the butt under her shoe. “If you want to. Now that we’re girlfriends and all.” She exhales and gives a small smile, meeting Spencer’s eyes.

They break out into one more bashful, happy laugh together, and Spencer knows that somehow, it’s all going to be okay.

Side by side, Quinn and Spencer walk casually back to cell 10. Spencer can only imagine what time it must be, and she’s looking forward to a well-deserved sleep. Tomorrow, for the first time in a long time, she’ll wake up a free woman. It feels like a bigger distinction than it should, considering she’s still trapped in this dump in the outer regions of the solar system with no way home – or real desire to go there anymore. But the immediate threats are finally gone. No one has any authority over her anymore, and Spencer’s going to keep it that way.

She hears a voice before she sees who it belongs to, and her feet move her into frame before she can think to stop herself. There, not five feet away and no bars between them, Spencer finds herself standing face to face with Kima Greggs, the last remaining prison guard, holding court right in the middle of her new home.


	66. A New Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Spencer takes off running before Greggs has the chance to say or do anything. If she had a taser in her hand, it’s not going to catch Spencer. Not today.

 _“Spencer, wait!”_   someone calls out, but she isn’t stopping.

The problem is, there isn’t anywhere to go. There’s no way out. Everywhere she turns, there is death. If this ship has a janitor – and Spencer’s only realizing now that it might not – they would sure earn their salary today.

Spencer takes a right-hand turn and starts towards Sue’s office, then remembers what’s in there and takes another right to head down the classes hallway. There are enough rooms there – ones that don’t have dead versions of herself in them -- that she can find one to hide in until she can come up with a plan.

“Spencer!” A voice comes from down the hall ahead of her, approaching quickly. It’s Aphasia.

Spencer turns to run back, but Quinn’s been chasing after and is catching up. They’ve got her surrounded. “We can hide in here,” Spencer tells them, pointing to the small arms room.

“Stop, stop,” Aphasia says as she reaches her. “Damn, girl, why you make us chase you? Greggs is cool.”

Spencer’s brow furrows, and she looks to Quinn for confirmation. Quinn gives a half-shrug and says, “Nobody’s dead.”

Aphasia crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at Spencer. Their showdown lasts all of three seconds, then Aphasia turns and starts walking back, shaking her head. _“Come on,”_  she calls out without turning around.

Spencer opts to walk back the way she came with Quinn, stepping over the many Boomer bodies for what must be the eleventh time in this unrelentingly bizarre day. She approaches cell 10 cautiously and keeps a safe distance just in case Greggs is armed after all. This could be another mutinous coup to take back whatever new authority Spencer has earned.

“I can explain,” Hermione says, stepping forward as Spencer comes into view. Greggs is sitting on Mack’s bed, feet on the ground, looking very annoyed. “Kima’s on our side. She’s been helping us for months.”

“I thought Vasquez locked you up?” Spencer asks. The evening’s been a bit of a blur, and she was very distracted by the decimated version of herself floating in a chair by a magic wand at the time, but she is fairly certain that Greggs was handled in…some way.

“She did,” Greggs says, then adds pointedly, “Thanks.”

“I went back and got her,” Hermione says. “I hid her in here just before I found you talking to Vee.”

“Fuck Vee,” Aphasia says, stepping into the cell now that she’s back from coming the other way. She passes closely by Hermione and giving a soft kiss to her temple before sitting down on Spencer’s old bunk.

Hermione’s face can’t help but react in a small smile at the touch. She moves to sit down beside her girlfriend, saying, “I can handle her.”

“So we’ve seen,” Spencer says with more than a hint of admiration. She really wants to sit down, and it’s better to carry on this conversation with some semblance of privacy, so Spencer’s left with no choice but to sit at the end of Mack’s bed, about three feet from Greggs. It’s an awkward moment as she sits; Greggs moves over a bit to give her more space. The two pairs of women face each other, leaning in with elbows on knees to continue their talk. Spencer’s voice drops into an excited hush. “Where’d you take her, anyway?” She’s dying to know. The whole teleportation thing is unbelievably cool, and the thought of being able to just transport yourself to nearby planets or other spaceships –

“Not as far as you think,” Hermione says quietly. “Traveling to one of the locations I mentioned is incredibly dangerous and, frankly, not anything I could do safely in the heat of the moment. So, I put her in a secure location until we can decide as a group what to do with her. Despite the many events of the day, I’m not okay with killing. We should talk about the best course of action, together. Until then, she’s in a bit of a stasis. I used a spell that makes her unable to move, like a frozen log, and hid her out of sight from the docking bay windows. She’ll stay out of trouble until we’re ready to deal with her.”

“You put her _in_ the docking bay?” Spencer asks, suddenly alarmed.

“She’ll be alright,” Hermione says assuredly. “She’s not going to starve in just one day. And we’re not expecting any visitors anytime s—”

“Ripley and Vasquez just left in the inspector’s ship!” Spencer shouts. Every face in the room drops.

“Did you see her?” Hermione cries, getting up as if to go after her. “What happened?”

Spencer replays the scene in her mind, standing there with The Doctor watching them leave. “I’m not sure? I swore I saw something go flying out when the airlock opened, but I wasn’t sure what it was.”

“Glad you got me out of there,” Greggs says quietly, but Hermione probably doesn’t catch it.

“Was it Vee?!” Aphasia asks. She seems to be having about twelve emotions at once.

“I don’t know! Maybe?” The more Spencer thinks about it, it certainly could have been. She remembers something long and dark and of a pretty hefty size. It was just a flash before it was gone, but it easily could’ve been a frozen person as Hermione described. Finally, she concedes, “I think so.”

Hermione looks devastated. She buries her face into Aphasia’s collarbone as her girlfriend holds her tightly, one hand in her hair.

“Baby, it’s fine,” Aphasia whispers. “Everybody already thought you killed her anyway!”

“It’s _not_ fine!” Hermione cries, sniffing back her tears. “I’m not a murderer!”

Spencer tries to help now. “Technically, you didn’t kill her! Ripley and Vasquez did!” She wants to add, _Haven’t you already killed a bunch of people in your wizard war?_  But that wouldn’t be helpful right now. And there’s a difference, she thinks, between killing on a battlefield and premeditated murder.

Hermione seems undeterred in her self-flagellation. “I’m still an accomplice! She wouldn’t have been sucked out helplessly into the vacuum of space if I hadn’t put her there!” She takes a deep breath, lip quivering as she pulls herself together. She says quietly to herself, “I guess now I really do deserve to be here.”

“Hey, you did the world a favor,” Greggs offers. “Believe me.”

Spencer does feel sympathetic; few people here who ended up becoming murderers had planned to, at least from what they say. This isn’t how she saw her own life playing out, either. It’s a bit refreshing to see true and honest remorse for a crime committed. It’s been a long time, and it makes her feel better about her own contrition.

“Look at it this way,” Spencer offers, “If everyone didn’t already fear you, they certainly do now. Maybe committing a sin is just part of what comes with being in your gang.”

Hermione and Aphasia both look down at Spencer now, apparently quite offended. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Hermione asks bitterly.

Spencer blinks and quickly reviews her mental file, making sure she has this right before speaking. “Aren’t you called The Sins?”

Now they both just look confused. “Who said that?” Aphasia asks.

Spencer can’t remember, but everyone at the time seemed to agree it was basic fact. Were they all just fucking with her? _Again?_

“I bet it was Shaw,” Aphasia says to Hermione. “She knows I hate that shit.”

“Hate what _?”_ Spencer asks.

“It’s ‘The Order of Cincinnati,’ ” Aphasia clarifies, throwing the same hand signals Spencer saw Octavia give earlier. (It seems lost on her that while it’s O-C from her perspective, it’s C-O to everyone else.) “That’s the full name. Some girls call it The Cins for short – like, C-I-N-S -- because they think it sounds cool or whatever. But it makes it sound like we’re about something we’re not.”

“Ah.” Spencer is a bit taken aback by how, well, pathetic and stupid it sounds. She’s on Shaw’s side for this one. But she knows if she can’t say anything nice, she shouldn’t say anything at all. There might be some weapons left under there.

Gesturing to Hermione, Aphasia says, “Her group back home, the alliance that’s rebelling against the dark, new world order, they call themselves The Order of Phoenix –”

“It’s Order of _the_ Phoenix,” Hermione interjects. “And it’s not nearly as much like Star Wars as she’s making it sound.”

“But I ain’t from Phoenix,” Aphasia continues, ignoring all that. “I’m from Cincinnati.”

Hermione looks at Spencer like she’s exhausted from having this same conversation repeatedly and getting nowhere. “Shockingly, I am not from Phoenix, either! And yet, here we are. The Order of Cincinnati.” Her British accent makes it sound about ten percent fancier than it would otherwise, which is approximately zero percent.

“It’s a good name!” Aphasia says, though she sounds like she only sort of believes it.

“Yes, it’s a wonderful name, dear, and we all love it,” Hermione placates, then looks back at Spencer with a deadpan expression like she’s on The Office. Yet another television show Spencer will never get to watch again. This is almost as good, though.

Spencer chokes back a laugh, and Aphasia crosses her arms and legs and begins sulking with a defiant, _“Hmmph!”_

“Vee’s gang used to be called the ‘Jail Marys,’ ” Hermione explains to Spencer. “Then, when Aphasia arrived and started her own group, Vee thought she could lure her over with a clever name change. So, the girls who stayed with Vee are now known as The Spades.”

“BECAUSE SHE KNOWS I’M THE ONLY BLACK ACE UP IN HERE,” Aphasia suddenly yells, too angry to make eye contact with anyone. “SO, OBVIOUSLY I SHOULD’VE THOUGHT OF THAT NAME AND BEEN THE ACE OF SPADES. BUT NO, I’M NOT JOINING HER AND I CAN’T JUST COPY THAT NAME AND YOU KNOW I’M SENSITIVE ABOUT THIS.” She collapses back into her sulking position just as quickly as she had exploded.

Spencer jumped about a foot at the outburst, and her eyes must be bulging out of her head in confusion because Hermione mouths, _“ ‘Ace’ is slang for asexual”_   to her as she rubs her hands on Aphasia’s shoulders. “I know, babe. I’m sorry. You’re right, it was an awful thing for her to do.” She kisses Aphasia’s cheek and rests her forehead on Aphasia’s temple.

They sit together for a moment of silent comfort before Spencer breaks the silence. “Well, hey, now that she’s dead, you can call your gang whatever you want! You can be the Ace of Spades!”

Her friends both look up, glaring at her. She’s not helping.

“Or you could be The Clubs? The Ace of Clubs is pretty cool,” Spencer tries again, though she knows they’re vastly inferior to spades. “Sounds threatening enough.”

“WE DON’T NEED A NEW NAME,” Aphasia insists, but she’s trembling, like all this emotion isn’t really about the name at all.

“Okay, sorry” Spencer says. She takes a deep breath and recenters herself. The girls on the opposite bed seem to be having a much tougher time of it. “Hey, are you okay?”

Aphasia stares blankly forward, eyes shining with tears, and sniffs hard once. Spencer can see her lip quivering; she’s trying desperately to keep herself from falling apart. She lifts her head to look Spencer in the eye, and it’s clear she’s tormented by something eating her up inside. “I didn’t know what that key card was,” Aphasia finally whispers out. Tears are streaming trails down her cheeks easily now. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

Hermione shifts the hands on Aphasia’s shoulders to arms wrapped fully around her as she buries her face in Aphasia’s neck. _“We know, baby,”_ she mumbles into the soft skin. _“It’s alright.”_

“IT’S NOT ALRIGHT,” Aphasia shouts, pulling away so she can look her girlfriend in the eye. “Don’t say that! Did you not see those dead girls back there?” She points toward the cafeteria, or at least tries to. She’s crying so hard, it’s tough for her to see clearly. “That’s _my_ fault.”

“They were fighting to save us all,” Hermione says. “This has been a _war_. Everything between you and Vee for years, it’s been awful. But you didn’t start it, she did. You didn’t tell those spiders to come kill us, _she_ did.” She lets her point sit for a moment before continuing. “It’s terrible that lives were lost today. I’m as upset as you are.” Aphasia wipes at her eyes but doesn’t seem so sure. Hermione takes Aphasia’s hands in hers and squeezes. “But now it’s over. We _won_ ,” she says smiling.  “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say that about what’s happening back home, but we still have this victory here. I want to celebrate that. And now nobody else is going to get hurt by Vee ever again, thanks to you.”

Aphasia tuts and wipes her cheek with the heel of her hand. “What the fuck did I do?” she asks. “You kept me locked up in here all goddamn day!”

“You saved our asses!” Spencer says. “There’s no way we could’ve taken out the guards and found Quinn without all your weapons. If it weren’t for you, we’d all be dead or locked up right now, and Sue or Vee would be running everything, and DYAD would keep on making their spiders and selling off clones of me to the highest bidder.” Aphasia looks up at that last point, very confused, and Spencer waves a hand. “Later. The point is, we couldn’t have fought back without you. We wouldn’t be where we are right now without your help. You saved us today.”

Aphasia sniffs hard again, shoulders high and back straight, and exhales deeply, stabilizing herself. She blinks a few times, very still, then reaches over without looking to take Hermione’s hand again in hers. The touch seems to soften her a bit as her body relaxes into a natural slouch. Aphasia looks up at Spencer once more with an expression that says, _Don’t you let it happen again._ “You white girls some helpless bitches.”

Greggs laughs at this, and Spencer can’t help but chuckle a bit herself as she smiles at her friend. “Don’t I know it.”

Hermione uses her thumb to wipe away one remaining tear trail on Aphasia’s face, then gently kisses the spot. They’re going to be okay, a little bit more with each tender kiss.

Spencer looks up at the magical mattress and says, “I still can’t believe you had all that stuff in the first place. It must’ve taken forever to get it all here.”

“Mmhmm,” Greggs hums next to her.

“Forty-one trips. One piece at a time,” Hermione says, brushing the bangs off Aphasia’s forehead to look into her eyes.

“Forty-three,” Aphasia corrects.

“Is it?” Hermione looks away for a moment, running calculations in her mind. “So much traveling,” she says with a heavy sigh. “Takes a toll on your mind at some point.”

“Then stay,” Aphasia says. Her eyes wince with a flash of regret, then she adds, “I mean, just for a little longer. Before you have to go.”

Hermione turns back around and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Aphasia’s ear, tracing her finger along her jawline. “You know I will. You don’t even have to ask.”

Spencer smiles and looks down at the floor, suddenly a bit uncomfortable infringing on their moment together. When it feels safe to speak up, she says, “I’m glad you’re sticking around. We could use your help.”

“Of course,” Hermione says. “Let me know what I can do.”

Spencer nods, grateful, then turns to Greggs. “Thank you. For helping them, and us. We really appreciate it.”

Greggs shrugs as if uncomfortable with the compliment. “Yeah, well. The good guys won. That’s all that matters.”

Looking back and forth between the guard and her friends, Spencer has to ask, “You guys seem like you’ve been working together a long time.”

“About a year, I think?” Hermione says, looking to Greggs for confirmation. The fingertips of her right hand trace lightly through Aphasia’s hair; her left sits in her lap, their fingers laced together. “Around the time this one and her friends came in.”

“Fourteen months now?” Aphasia says, meeting her eyes. “Yeah, that sounds right.”

“I knew from the moment she arrived,” Hermione tells Spencer, “that she was special. Brave, clever, full of fire. Beautiful.” She looks at Aphasia, who’s blushing now. “Resourceful,” she says with a bit of a chuckle, like it’s the understatement of the year. Hermione keeps her eyes locked on Aphasia. “She was brilliant.” She takes a breath, then continues. “We became friends, then more than friends.” She’s the one blushing now. “I told her about the war at home and why I’m here. She wanted to help me fight them.”

“There’s some bad shit going on,” Aphasia agrees. “Not just in England, but it’s the worst there. There’s this super-evil bad dude who’s been trying to take over and kill all the good people. He killed a lot of her friends already.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer says.

“They don’t even say his name, he’s so bad,” Aphasia says. She turns her head, and Hermione’s fingers shift to rest on her neck as she speaks. “Wal-de-mart? Hold-the-fort?”

 _“Voldemort_ ,” Hermione says to Spencer, both eyebrows raised.

Aphasia catches Spencer’s eye and winks. “Oh yeah, that’s right,” she says, turning back to Hermione. “Thanks, baby.” She gives her a peck on the cheek.

“As I was saying,” Hermione continues, shifting toward Spencer, “we wanted to do what we can. She offered to break ranks from Vee and begin recruiting women to our cause. And it was her idea to start stockpiling weapons in the event we needed to fight. I don’t think either of us dreamed we’d ever overthrow the ship, b—”

 _“I_ did,” Aphasia insists.

“We’ve prepared for several contingencies.” Hermione leaves it at that. Then she turns to Aphasia, as if just now remembering something, and asks in a whisper, “Have you checked in with Raven today?”

Aphasia hums a negative and says, “I’ll catch up to her tomorrow.”

“I saw her earlier,” Spencer offers. “She seemed fine. I think she was staying out of all the mess.”

“That’s good,” says Hermione. Looking at Aphasia, then at Greggs, she takes a deep breath and exhales. “I’m glad my people made it through this horror of a day safe and sound.”

Spencer leans back against the frame of the bed and angles herself slightly toward Greggs. “How’d you get involved in all this?”

“We got to know each other pretty well with all her in-and-outs,” Greggs says, glancing back at Hermione. “I do all the intakes. One day I straight-up asked her how the hell she keeps getting out. I think she only told me the truth because she knew I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Most Muggles don’t,” says Hermione.

“It was probably ten more times before I started listening,” Greggs says. “I don’t know…we just started building trust, I guess.”

“You told me about Cheryl,” says Hermione warmly.

“Yeah,” says Greggs with a sheepish smile, “I guess I did.” She looks at Spencer again. “I don’t talk about my private life. I don’t talk to inmates. I’m just here to do my job.”

“You were lonely,” Hermione says. “So was I.” She leans her head against Aphasia’s, readjusting their hands in her lap and absently stroking Aphasia’s thumb with her own. “It was just nice to have someone to talk to.”

Spencer adjusts her sitting position on the bed, her words sounding just as uncomfortable, “I don’t know if I could’ve ever trusted someone who worked for Sue.”

Hermione’s face immediately hardens. “She’s not like the others. Kima’s not a machine. She doesn’t have superpowers, and she’s not a sadistic psychopath. She’s a good woman trying to put food on the table for her family. And from what I’ve seen, she’s the only one of _them_ who’s trying to protect us. You should give her a chance. And a medal, frankly.”

“I might have one,” Aphasia says. She lets go of Hermione’s hand and stands up to reach under her mattress.

Hermione and Spencer exchange similar looks of, _Sure, why not._

“Anyway,” Greggs says, pushing aside the uncomfortable emotions, “a few months later, the Skanks came in and _this_ got started.” She gestures to the happy couple. “Hermione said they needed my help. We worked out a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” Spencer asks over the sound of junk being pushed around the black hole, like dropping a dozen pots and pans off a balcony. She’s completely enthralled by every moment of this gripping saga. And it’s giving her hope that good things can come out of finding the right people here.

“I said I’d help her bring stuff into the prison,” Greggs says. “I do all the searches on intake before handing off the inmates to Boomer. There’s a small storage room by the elevator where we lock up any personal items that come in with someone. So, I just had to store whatever she brought until Aphasia could come get it later with that weird blanket.”

Aphasia pulls her head out of the darkness long enough to say, “I miss my blanket.”

Hermione rubs Aphasia’s closest leg in sympathy. “I know. Me too.”

Spencer’s never seen this room, she realizes. Filling in the mental map in her mind, she realizes how stupid she’s been all this time – The docking bay is downstairs, but the cell block is upstairs. Inmates have to be moved. Of _course_ there’s a second elevator, probably just through the door on the far end of the Processing room, which would be right above the docking bay. They didn’t need Sue’s secret one after all. Oh well.

Greggs shakes her head, amazed they were able to pull it off. “They never knew she was bringing in Oreos and flamethrowers and all kinds of crazy shit. Even if someone came to check the lockers, it’d already be gone.” Nodding to Aphasia, Greggs says, “And _she_ never let that wand sit in there for more than an hour, I swear. That thing was gone before Sue even knew Hermione was back.”

Hermione nuzzles Aphasia’s temple with her forehead and whispers with a smile, “That’s my girl.” After a beat, she adds, “I miss my wand.”

Now it’s Aphasia’s turn to push closer and say, “I know, baby.” Turning back to Spencer, she points a finger toward Greggs and says, “She found all kinds of shit for us downstairs, too. Supplies, extra weapons…”

“That weird-ass chainsaw,” Greggs mentions as a _for instance_ and gives a little laugh.

Spencer turns at this. “You just…found it? Lying around?”

“It was locked up in one of the old armories on A-Wing,” Greggs says. “We don’t really use it anymore. I didn’t even know if the thing still worked, but Aphasia said she wanted anything. Figured I’d at least offer it up.” She gives a small shrug.

“Oh, it worked,” says Spencer. She’s not smiling. She still sees bodies slicing in half every time she blinks. But the truth is, Spencer might not be sitting here alive if it weren’t for that godforsaken machine. And they definitely wouldn’t have survived if they hadn’t been armed at all. She owes a lot to these three women. They accomplished an amazing thing here.

There’s a quiet moment, then Spencer turns to Greggs again. “So, what’d you get out of it? Helping them.”

“Hermione’s been checking in on my family,” Greggs says. “I got a wife and kid back home. I don’t get to see them much, can’t make a phone call, no internet. No post office on the corner. But she looks in on them for me and puts letters in a special mailbox we set up. She even brought me a picture so I could see how big my baby’s gotten. He’s almost four now.” Greggs reaches into her shirt pocket and pulls out a folded 4x6 photograph of a woman holding an adorable boy in a bathing suit. She offers the picture to Spencer, looking on with a proud, sad smile.

“You have a beautiful family,” Spencer says.

“Yes, I do.”

“Thanks for helping keep me and my friends alive today,” Spencer says.

“Yeah, well,” Greggs replies, “you can repay me by telling all your friends not to kill me the second I step out that door.”

“Yeah, of course,” Spencer says. “But you should probably stay in here tonight and lay low. I can talk to the others in the morning. I think we’re all kind of maxed out right now.”

“Nah, I’ve got my room downstairs,” Greggs starts, but Hermione objects.

“Please,” she says. “Stay. I can lock the door for the night.” There’s a brief pause, then, “We keep each other safe.”

Greggs looks up at Aphasia. “You still got those Oreos?”

“Oh, yeah, I got you,” she replies and shifts to the right to dig in an area near the foot of the bed. It only takes a moment for her to pull out a sealed blue package, which Aphasia hands to Greggs before moving back to the center to resume her original search.

The cell door slides open loudly, and all eyes turn to see one very tired, very cranky Mack, who’s holding what appears to be a block of frozen orange juice concentrate against her head. Quinn’s following right behind, sans any fake food products.

“Move,” Mack grunts, approaching her bed without slowing. Spencer and Greggs do as they’re told. Mack flops down face-first and sets the frozen block against the top of her head. Then, she picks up her pillow and uses it to hold the block against her crown, folding the sides around in an upside-down U shape to cover her ears. _“Go awayyyy,”_  she groans.

Hermione looks at Spencer with wide eyes as if to say, _Boy, my girlfriend’s roommate is just so great!_  Spencer chuckles as they share a quiet moment of understanding. She knows all too well what life with Mack is like.

“Found one!” Aphasia shouts, withdrawing her hand victoriously. Mack yells an expletive into the pillow that Spencer can’t quite make out.

The mattress falls back against the frame as Aphasia holds up a small brass medal. It’s in the shape of a thick cross and hanging from a short, green ribbon. It’s the kind meant to be pinned to the breast of a jacket. And, based on the text under the emblem, it’s for third place in an Ohio regional spelling bee. Aphasia hands it to Greggs, whose amused smile gradually morphs into confusion the longer she looks at her new award.

“…Thanks.”

Her final task for the day now complete, Aphasia climbs up onto the top bunk. She scoots over closer to the wall as Hermione pulls herself up to join her. Quinn’s making her way up to the opposite bunk to do the same, lying down and looking toward Spencer, clearly expecting her to follow. But something gives Spencer pause. Guilt, maybe, or just a sense that she’s needed more elsewhere right now.

She crosses the room and stands by the bunk to meet Quinn eye to eye. Brushing a strand of pink bangs out of the way, Spencer says, “If you’re okay with these guys, I’m gonna go and come back first thing in the morning. It’s pretty crowded in here already.” Quinn’s eyes flinch at the rejection, but Spencer leans in to give her a small kiss. “You’ll get me every night starting tomorrow. It’s been a really long, hard day, and I’m just worried about…people who are all alone right now.”

Quinn doesn’t look thrilled by her decision, but she seems to understand it. “Breakfast in bed,” she jabs playfully with her demand. “Nine A.M. Fresh strawberries with whipped cream, crepes…”

 _“Crepes?”_  Spencer laughs. “I’ll have Martha get right on that.”

“Champagne…” Quinn continues.

“Does Raven even make that?” Spencer grins. “I’ll go ask.” She steals another kiss, longer this time, and holds the moment until Mack starts punching her repeatedly in the thigh.

_“GO AWAYYYYY.”_

Spencer laughs against Quinn’s lips as she cringes in pain, and her forehead falls against Quinn’s cheek as she cries, “Ow! Ow! Stop!” She fights back blindly with her knee until she’s forced to give up and step away. “Good night, you guys.” Looking back at Quinn once more, she adds, “See you in the morning.”

Sliding the cell door shut, she steps out of the way as Hermione casts a quiet spell that engages the locking function once again.

Things are quieter now on the block as other inmates have crashed for the night, one by one. The other doors are still open and the hallway lights are still on, as no one seems to have yet figured out how to turn them off, but nobody seems to mind. It’s a small price to pay for their autonomy.

She reaches cell 1, her home for this one final night, and Lucy’s already asleep on her bed, curled up and alone. The room seems bigger now with so many empty beds. (She hopes Faith and Santana are okay downstairs but doesn’t have the energy to think any more about them right now.) Spencer takes off her shoes and slides as quietly as she can into the empty space between Lucy’s back and the wall. She drapes her left arm over the pink sleeve protruding from the sheet and gently pulls Lucy close to her. The sleepy girl presses back against her ever so slightly, acknowledging the gesture. Sure, they were fighting to the death a few hours ago, but that’s just the kind of day it’s been.

Spencer presses her nose into the long, blonde hair and takes a deep breath as her mind starts to play back the events of the last eight hours on fast forward. But partway through, Spencer opens her eyes for a moment to stop the movie and reset the images in her mind. There’s no need to live through it all again. It was terrible, but it’s finally over. And they’re still here. They won.

“I’ve got you,” Spencer whispers against Lucy’s hair with another faint squeeze of her arm, or maybe she only dreams it, because she’s already fast asleep.

****************

The lights in the cell block seem brighter than usual when Spencer wakes up. She’s alone, and the door is still open. Lucy’s gone, but Spencer can hear noise in the distance. Yelling, banging on metal – not the gentle sounds of fifty women having a friendly breakfast together.

She blinks against the morning and exhales loudly. This was supposed to be a peaceful start, a new beginning. But maybe change was a tall order around here.

After using the bathroom quickly, she zips up her jumpsuit and steps out into the corridor, walking north to see if anyone else is around. Most of the cells are empty; those that aren’t have one sleeping person in them at most. Until she reaches cell 10 – here, four women are still present, and most appear to be awake. Interestingly, Mack is the one missing.

“Morning,” Spencer says. She walks in the open door and approaches Quinn’s bunk with a smile, running a hand through her bedhead hair.

Quinn’s reading _(of course)_ but peers over the edge of _The Queen’s Bosom_ to smile at her guest. “Morning.”

“It’s shocking, I know, but they were all out of crepes,” Spencer says. “I think Idgie stole the whipped cream for a kinky sex game. And the latest strawberry shipment seems to be covered in paint and spider guts for some unknown reason? But I can whip up some French toast, if you’re interested.”

“I could go for that,” Quinn says, playing along. She sets down the book and angles her body to face Spencer, propping her head up on her hand.

“If by ‘French’ you’ll accept ‘possibly from planet Earth…?’ and for ‘toast’ you’ll accept ‘rectangular plank, most likely shipping cardboard from the pantry.’ ”

“You really know how to romance a girl,” Quinn says.

“I worked really hard on it,” Spencer smiles back. “Hey, do you know what’s going on down the hall?”

Quinn’s brow furrows; this is news to her. Spencer realizes you can’t hear the noise from this far down. And even though she wants nothing more than to climb into bed with Quinn as promised, she knows there could be real trouble brewing. She’s responsible in large part for their new situation and can’t just abandon that to spend the entire day making love to a beautiful girl.

Well, she could, but she shouldn’t.

Even though she really, _really_ wants to.

“I’m gonna go check it out.” Spencer thinks for a beat, then grins. “Wanna be my muscle?”

****************

It doesn’t take long for them to find the source of the commotion. The majority of the prisoners are crowded down at the very end of the hall past the cafeteria, in the Solitary Ward. Which suddenly is the very opposite of solitary.

Spencer picks up her pace as they get closer and the noise gets louder. Some people are banging on the doors of Martha’s cell, while others are simply screaming at each other incoherently. When they reach the entryway, Spencer sees that the dismembered body of the guard in red leather has been moved out of the way of traffic, leaving behind a messy trail of blood and guts that somehow only makes the whole scene even worse. A tangle of red shoeprints covers most of the floor at the entryway to the ward.

The crowd of people, Spencer can see now, is made of two opposing forces. And, unsurprisingly, they’re mostly divided along gang lines, she can now recognize. The Past Hells have their backs to the doors, blocking the path for what remains of The Order of Cincinnati and the Spades.

 _“Get the fuck outta the way!”_  someone’s yelling, maybe Poussey, but it’s lost in an even louder mess of jeering and shoving.

As the line of defense presses forward, Spencer can see Lucy in the very back of the mix, right up against the door. The more she watches the tug-of-war, it becomes clear that the Past Hells are trying to create a shield of bodies around Lucy and prevent her from being crushed. Based on the wincing on Lucy’s face, it doesn’t seem to be working.

“What’s going on?” Spencer cries out, but nobody’s listening. “Rosa! Shaw!” Her voice is lost in the back and forth. Suddenly, a deafening scream hurts her ears from close range.

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP!” It’s Quinn, with gun extended, and lo and behold, the noise quickly dissipates as all eyes turn to face them. “Now,” she continues calmly, not lowering her weapon, “Lucy, what are you and your friends doing?”

“We’re hungry!” Lucy Diamond says.

“Not you,” Quinn says, pointing the gun right between her eyes.

 _“Somebody let me out of here!”_  The muffled sounds of Becky pounding on the furthest door break the tension of the moment somewhat, but the group largely ignores her.

Lucy Fabray pushes past River and Dark Willow on the end to free herself from the huddle and walks over to her sister. “They want to let Martha out.”

“It’s breakfast time!” Tastee reminds them, crankily.

“But nobody has a key to these doors,” Lucy says, “except Sue.”

“No,” Spencer interrupts, “we – someone has her key, remember?” It might not be in her best interest to reveal the object of a gang’s obsession is currently buried under her heel, even if it’s digging in like a motherfucker.

“Sue has her own keys,” Lucy says. “She showed us. A big ring of them.”

Spencer remembers – she’s seen them before, that very first day she went into Sue’s office and she was handcuffed. She’d forgotten about them until now. How did she miss them when they threw Sue in here?

At the confused look on her face, Lucy adds, “They were in her underwear.”

Spencer’s face doesn’t look any better after that.

Quinn asks Lucy, “Then why’s she still in there?” She points the gun at Johanna now, then Octavia, just to keep the mob on its toes, and glances at Mack’s ass and winks.

“Can’t unlock it from the inside?” Spencer ventures. “So, now she’s trying to pass them through the bars?”

“With the promise that whoever lets her out gets immediate release,” Lucy says.

It clearly sounds like wishful thinking, but it does give Spencer pause. “Do we believe her?”

“Somewhere you need to be?” Quinn asks, not hiding the bitter tone in her voice.

“No, I just…” Spencer says. “If there’s a way out, maybe we should let some people take it.” Lucy and Quinn both look at her, surprised by what she seems to be suggesting. “I’m not saying we let Sue out, but we shouldn’t just leave everyone trapped in here if there’s an escape route. For anybody who wants to leave,” she adds. “It’s worth looking into.”

“She’s bluffing,” Quinn says. “If there were a way out, she would’ve taken it after she killed the inspector.”

It’s a fair point. “So, we take the keys,” Spencer says, “but only let Martha out. What am I missing?”

Lucy shakes her head. “She took Martha’s key off the ring and is withholding it specifically until we let her out.”

“Great.” Spencer surveys the scene again. “And you’re trying to keep them from taking the deal?” It’s a bit surprising – Lucy’s been a staunch Sue supporter for months. But then, the events of yesterday probably undid all the goodwill Sue’s earned over the years, now that Lucy knows the truth. It’s hard to justify lies and betrayal of that magnitude.

Lucy’s face hardens as she considers her words. “It’s her turn.”

It’s hard to disagree with that.

Big Boo speaks up now, addressing Quinn. “You just gonna stand there with your dick out all day? Or are we gonna have to start by eating you?”

“Like they haven’t already,” Johanna says, looking at the three women in question – the only ones not laughing. Even Sue’s chuckling from behind the steel door.

Spencer can’t let this situation get out of hand, so she takes a risk. “I have a key. I’ll let Martha out if she agrees to resume working. If it’s not too much to ask, I think the rest of us should split up and get rid of all these bodies. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of looking at them.”

“And where exactly are we supposed to put them?” Dark Willow asks. “Ooh! Can we put them in with Sue?”

It’s not the worst idea she’s heard this week.

“The airlock downstairs,” Spencer replies. “There’s a stairwell at the intersection past cell 20 on the left.”

“What about Sue?” Quinn asks. “Someone has to stay and make sure she doesn’t try anything.”

“Can you get the keys from her?” Spencer asks. “I can send Greggs down to stay with you so you’re not on your own. You guys shouldn’t have to do any cleanup. We’re the ones who made the mess.”

“Greggs?” Lucy asks.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, louder now so that everyone can hear. “One of the guards, Officer Greggs, is on our side.” Nobody seems to believe her, but she continues. “She’s been helping…some inmates smuggle weapons into the prison, and that’s how we were able to take control yesterday.”

 _“Excuse me?”_  Sue cries from behind the door. She’s got her face smooshed up against the small window, even though it’s closed. _“Who’s juggling weapons?”_

“So, we please ask that you not kill her,” Spencer announces in her best public relations voice. “Thank you.”

No one knows what to say to this news, or cares. A few inmates mumble to each other, but at least no one’s rebelling anymore. With the situation diffused, Spencer and Lucy start redirecting the inmates to form small groups and make their way back down to the main cell block, where the bulk of the bodies are. Clarke and Lexa offer to take the Solitary guard’s body with them as they go. Spencer hopes Hermione might lead a B-team on a massive scrubbing of the kitchen with the assistance of some magical cleaning spell. (She shivers again thinking about how much yesterday’s kitchen craziness reminded her of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Hopefully Hermione is smarter than a goddamn talking mouse.)

“Wait here,” Spencer says to Quinn. “I’ll go get Greggs and send her back. She probably has her own key, anyway,” she realizes. Spencer reaches out and squeezes Quinn’s hand – the one without a gun in it – and starts back past the cafeteria. She’ll feel better about the new regime, and whatever role she’s going to play in it, when their ship isn’t covered in blood and corpses at every turn. And when the cafeteria isn’t plastered with splattered paint and mutant spider guts and squashed bumblebees. And when there isn’t a dead version of her rotting down the hall with a bullet in its head. And when there isn’t…Umbridge.

Reaching cell 10, Spencer brings Greggs, Aphasia, and Hermione up to speed. They seem grateful it’s being handled without serious opposition. Spencer’s a bit surprised, herself, that it went so smoothly. But there’s still a lot of work ahead.

“There’s a supply closet across from Gym 3,” Greggs says. “It’s got all kinds of mops and brooms and bleach and stuff.”

“Thanks,” Spencer says. “I’m gonna head up the cleaning crew on this end.” She looks to Aphasia. “Can you take your people to Sue’s office and start there?”

“Yeah, sure,” she says.

“I’ll handle the cafeteria,” Hermione agrees.

“Send someone to get us when there’s food ready?” Spencer says. “Just in case any of us has an appetite left after all the guts and dismemberment.” Looking back at Aphasia once more, Spencer calls out, “Hey.” They’ve been through a lot, and she isn’t sure how to push past this without directly addressing it. Not that she wants to do that either. “We okay?” she finally asks.

Aphasia takes a deep breath and considers the question. “Yeah. We okay.” And with that, she takes off toward the office and doesn’t look back.

Twenty minutes later, Spencer’s holding the door as Idgie and Starbuck carry one of the final bodies away from the cell block. Idgie is right behind them carrying Graham’s legs, one under each arm. Kat and Alice have taken over scrubbing blood stains off the ground from Rosa and Chloe O’Brian. Dark Willow and Shay are almost done moving all the remains of the girls out of the trash room, plus whatever chunks are left of the giant Helena spider. (Willow had permission to burn it further to break it down. Shay accompanied for fire safety purposes.) Clarke has reported that Solitary is quiet and clean, and Aphasia’s back from the east wing with Root and Shaw. They made sure to carry the dead Spencer clone and the inspector out of Sue’s office when Spencer was handling issues elsewhere, thankfully. No one should have to see what they look like with a bullet in their face. Lucy’s doing a final sweep of each hall now to make sure they didn’t miss anything, though she has the sad look of an artist whose gallery is being taken down.

“Quite the pile down there,” Root reports as she comes up the stairs.

“Good,” Spencer says, “that means we didn’t miss any.” But really, there’s nothing good at all about what they did, and she doesn’t want to see it all gathered together in one literal mountain of guilt and shame. It somehow didn’t seem as much when it was all spread out. Painfully, Spencer realizes that must’ve been Vee’s same reasoning about the deaths of her enemies. “I’m gonna go check on Hermione.”

As she reaches the main intersection outside the cafeteria, she peers down the hall to see if Quinn and Greggs are in view, but they’re just around the corner, it seems. She seizes the opportunity to take a muchly needed bathroom break, and it feels good to just sit down for a moment and rest. This is the very same bathroom where she and Quinn had their first, well, _encounter_ , which is hard to imagine now. It doesn’t feel remotely like a sexy place, but when Quinn walks in the room, anything is possible, Spencer guesses.

There’s noise outside, but it must be from the mass cleaning in the Mess Hall. She can only imagine what’s happening in there, but she’ll find out shortly. Ten minutes later, Spencer pulls on the cafeteria door and steps inside to find…the exact same mess they left last night. The giant room is covered in multicolored paint splotches from floor to ceiling, the carcasses of inmates and insects and spiders alike still litter the place. Absolutely nothing has been done, and her friend is nowhere to be found.

But there’s banging and angry shouting coming from the kitchen in the back, so Spencer runs to investigate. An older, blonde woman is rummaging through the shelves of the now completely trashed kitchen. (Spencer’s not sure how much of the mess was from the no-gravity battle zone; it’s hard to tell.) With each can or box she chucks across the room, she shouts an even louder obscenity about “what an unacceptable mess” it all is.

“This is NOT A GOOD THING!” Martha screams, hurling a box of thawed, soggy fish sticks in Spencer’s direction.

 _“Cook something!”_  Quinn yells from the back of the kitchen, just out of Spencer’s view.

Moving around, Spencer is able to get a better look. Quinn’s holding the woman at gunpoint. Because this is her new favorite hobby.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asks her. “I thought you were guarding Sue.”    

Martha bangs a wooden spoon three times on the metal counter and shouts, “WHERE IS MY STAINLESS-STEEL COLANDER?”

“Our friend Martha required a little motivation to get back to work,” Quinn tells Spencer. “She has fifteen minutes to get lunch ready or I’ll turn _her_ into a colander.”

“Oh, GO TAKE A BATH, SKANK,” Martha fires back at Quinn, then kicks a case of BSM on the floor as hard as she can.

“You first,” Quinn says coolly and cocks the hammer of her pistol. “Fajitas. Now.”

It seems she has a decent enough hold on the situation, but that doesn’t explain why she’s alone back here. “Where’s Hermione?” Spencer asks Quinn.

“She’s not out there?” Quinn asks, not taking her eyes off her target. “They went to get cleaning supplies a while ago.”

“No, nobody’s there,” Spencer tells her over the huffing and puffing of Martha working in the space between them. “I guess I’ll go see if I can find them.” She starts to walk away and then adds, “Good luck with…this.”

Spencer crosses back through the disaster scene of the cafeteria into the foyer beside the library. She doesn’t see anyone down the classes hallway, nobody pulling supplies out of the closet. Something’s wrong. She heads to the right and down the east passage, past the G-SPOT and into the Solitary ward. But there’s no one there – no Greggs, no Hermione.

“Hello?” Spencer says, approaching cautiously. This doesn’t feel right, not even a little bit.

 _“Hastings?”_  comes a voice from behind the first door. Sue’s door. But it isn’t Sue.

“Who is that?” Spencer runs to throw open the observation window, and sure enough, Greggs is trapped inside, sporting a bloody nose, and the warden is nowhere to be found. Digging the key out of her shoe, Spencer opens the door as quickly as she can. “What happened?”

 _How did I miss this?_  Spencer can’t believe so much went wrong so fast. If only she hadn’t needed to take a goddamn dump, she could’ve stopped this. Or, well, maybe Spencer would’ve gotten her ass beaten and locked up trying, but at least she’d have something to show for it.

Greggs dabs at the red drops under her tender nose and examines them. “We were outnumbered. I let Martha out like you said, but she was mad as hell, so someone suggested Quinn go with her since she had the gun. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But then they knocked Hermione out and took her wand and threw her inside.”

That wand, though, Spencer sees now, is lying on the floor outside the cell in two pieces. Spencer opens the window to what used to be Martha’s cell and pushes the pieces inside one at a time, just in case Hermione is able to use them somehow for…something. Picking a stray piece of taco out of her teeth, perhaps.

“Who did?” Spencer asks. And here she’d thought after yesterday she was done with feeling terrified, at least for a week or so. So much for that.

“Vee’s girls,” Greggs says. “Something about ‘payback’? Don’t know what for.”

And now Spencer realizes how very, very stupid it was for her to not oversee the division of labor. She’d bet her final undergarment that kitchen cleaning duty was happily claimed by the freshly scorned women who think Hermione killed their leader. A perfect opportunity to outnumber and take her by force before she could zap them with her magic stick.

But then, maybe this isn’t about Hermione after all. She’s here, safe – unconscious but breathing – and someone else isn’t.

Looking down the empty hall, Spencer can feel her heart beating in her chest. “Where’s Sue?”


	67. Nice to Meat You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

Greggs and Spencer take off running, passing each empty cell in turn. On the bright side, it’s much easier to make their way from one end of the ship to the other now that it’s clean. But it’s more and more unsettling not finding anyone when all her friends were just here fifteen minutes ago.

“I really, really hope they’re not where I think they are,” Spencer calls out as they run. They’re quickly approaching the staircase. With a look left and right, making sure the wing corridors are empty, Spencer starts down as fast as she can.

Yep, the group is exactly where she thinks it is.

The once pristine, white hallways of the lower level are now sporting a Red Brick Road of blood trails that lead right into the airlock chamber. Behind the safety glass of the docking bay, Spencer sees the grotesque mountain of bodies from yesterday’s efforts. She was right; she didn’t ever want this visual. It’s at least six feet high (but maybe less this time tomorrow, after it’s had time to settle a bit? Why is she thinking about this?) And someone, it seems, thought it’d be funny to arrange a hand sticking straight up at the peak, middle finger extended, like a Tim Burton Christmas tree topper.

But the horrific visual of all this is overshadowed by the activity nearby – one red-faced, very pissed-off warden screaming and kicking at the door, which Tastee and Suzanne and Big Boo seem to be holding closed with their collective body weight. Fortunately, the glass is soundproof, though Spencer admits she’s morbidly intrigued to know what stream of belittlement Sue’s rambling off in there.

The rest of the inmates have formed a perimeter around the docking bay, cheering and chanting for their friends to send Sue out the airlock with the rest of the trash. Why they haven’t done it yet, Spencer doesn’t know. Maybe they’re enjoying their power position and want to play with their food before they eat it, so to speak.

 _“You think it’s fun locking women up, huh? See how YOU like it,”_  someone shouts.

_“Hey Sue, we brought your dinner. It’s been sitting out for a few days, but you don’t mind, right? If it’s good enough for us, it’s good enough for you.”_

_“Show us that jazzercise routine you love so much. Come on now, dance! VOGUE, BITCH!”_

It’d be funny if it wasn’t kind of sad that this is the state of things. This seems to keep happening, this mob mentality that brings them all to the lowest common denominator and reduces them to the worst sides of themselves. If Spencer lets herself, she might get sucked in and join them.

She catches a glimpse of Aphasia on the far left side, hooting and hollering along, and Spencer runs over and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Hey,” she says loudly over the riot. “Hermione’s been hurt.”

That certainly gets her attention. Aphasia whips around with eyes blazing. “Where? What happened?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I think it was some of Vee’s girls. Are they the ones who brought Sue down here?”

Aphasia looks around and sees Johanna, Poussey, and the rest of the gang over on the far side of the docking bay window. The ones who aren’t blocking the door are encouraging the other ones to vent Sue’s ass out into space already. The look on Aphasia’s face says she’s disappointed that they didn’t wait even twenty-four hours before making a move on her people – on _her_ person -- but also not surprised.

“Yeah.” Aphasia starts toward the stairs, but Spencer grabs her arm again.

“She’s up in Solitary; I think she’s safe for now. But somebody knocked her out and broke her wand.”

“Fuck,” Aphasia curses. She looks back over at the perpetrators with fire in her eyes, then shouts, “YEAH, FUCK YOU,” over at them once more. It’s lost in the sea of taunting, but it seems to make her feel a bit better. “Now I gotta go tell Raven,” she says, as if that task is going to be anything but fun. “After I check on my girl.”

She takes another two steps, but Spencer reaches out and grabs her shoulder one more time. “Hang on! I saw Raven last night.” Spencer had completely forgotten until now. “She said to tell you, ‘It was almost ready.’ Whatever that means.”

It seems to mean something to her. “You handle this shit,” Aphasia says, pointing back behind her. There isn’t time for Spencer to ask any for any details, because Aphasia’s already broken away and running.

The lower level seems no less crowded in her absence. Mack, Root, Alice, Regina, Starbuck, Rosa, Chloe, Kat, Shay, Flaca and Maritza…the whole damn prison is down here.

Even Lucy.

She’s standing off to the side, leaning against the wall and just watching. Supervising, if anything. Keeping an eye on her girls in case something goes wrong. Somehow, in this moment of violence and terror, Lucy Fabray is the one keeping a cool head.

Spencer walks up slowly and slides quietly next to her, leaning back and taking in the same view of the riot. “You’re not gonna stop them?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Lucy and Spencer continue to watch the moment, which is stuck on a bit of a loop as neither side is gaining any ground. Sue’s face drifts in and out of sight behind the heads of girls on this side of the glass. Lucy doesn’t offer any further comment until a minute later.

“She hurt me.”

It’s quiet, and Spencer isn’t even sure she hears the words at all until she sees the look on Lucy’s face. It’s a private confession that she only felt safe to mention amidst the deafening chaos.

“I know,” Spencer replies. They both still have their eyes on the madness, as the other inmates have started pounding their fists on the glass as they chant. Spencer doesn’t think it’s the smartest idea, but she’ll step in if things get critical. So, for now, her hand finds its way into Lucy’s as their fingers connect softly.

 _“Ladies, ladies!”_  Tastee’s voice rings out over the din as she bangs on the wall with her hand like a gavel. “The day of reckoning has arrived!” With anyone else, this sentence would sound incredibly dark and foreboding, but coming from her, with that beaming smile, it sounds downright celebratory.

A rousing cheer erupts, and Spencer knows Sue’s probably down to her final minute of existence. Whether Sue knows that, or can even hear them at all, is another question.

“Somebody’s about to become shark food,” Tastee announces, and she signals to one of her associates to “Hit that button!”

The group seems to collectively hold their breath in anticipation, watching and waiting for the big moment. Sue appears to have a change of plan as well, abandoning her assault on the door to walk down the line of window glass.

“What’s she doing?” Kat asks.

Sure enough, the prisoner is no longer screaming or fighting or objecting to her conditions at all. She’s searching the eyes of the crowd, one hand flat above her eyes like a visor to block the overhead light. And then, Sue squints and looks between the inmates until she sees what she’s looking for. Her face softens immediately as her eyes fill with emotion, and Spencer bristles – Sue’s looking right at her.

 _No_ \-- She’s looking at Lucy. And now, so is everybody else.

Sue waves a hand to beckon her forward, then knocks on the glass several times and points, her mouth silently calling, _“Lucy! Lucy. Please.”_

Johanna gives a cocky half-smile and says, “I guess the warden wants her little debutante to die right along with her.”

Spencer squeezes her hand and releases it, turning to say, “I can go with you.”

Lucy doesn’t give an answer either way but starts walking toward the door around the far right side. Spencer waits a few steps and then follows slowly behind. As Lucy approaches, the girls in her path step aside, all until Big Boo and the others guarding the door. They’re not backing down.

“Oh, beauty queen,” Boo says, “You reeeeeeeally don’t want to fuck with us today.”

“Open the door,” Lucy says.

Boo blinks hard and her mouth opens a bit. “I’m sorry, did you think that was gonna work? News flash: We’re not scared of you. I know yesterday you went on your little murder spree, and we’re all very happy you got to relive your childhood. But now it’s our turn, and this is our kill. So, how about you go fuck off.” It’s not up for debate.

But Lucy isn’t arguing the point. “She just wants to say goodbye.”

“Give her two minutes,” Spencer says over her shoulder.

“Why the fuck should we?” Boo asks. She crosses her arms and stares Spencer down hard. This is the kind of typical intimidation and fear tactics she expected to encounter here in prison. Compared to everything else the last few days have thrown at her, this is almost cute.

“Because it’s good business to have two of the people currently running the prison owe you a favor, especially when you barely have to do anything to earn it,” Spencer replies.

Suzanne, Tastee, and Big Boo all exchange looks, considering the risks. With their leader gone, their weakened status has made them a bit more desperate for an edge than they’d like.

“I guess if she does something we don’t like,” Suzanne offers, “we can just airlock them both.”

“Buy one bitch, get the next one free,” Tastee says and cracks her knuckles.

“Wait,” Suzanne says, turning to her friend. “I don’t think that’s how shopping works.”

Big Boo raises an eyebrow at Tastee and gestures her head to the door. They rearrange themselves to let the visitors through but stand ready, prepared for any funny business.

Tastee pounds her fist hard three times on the door and yells, “STAND BACK.”

Five seconds later, she opens it, and there’s Sue. She’s standing at least fifteen feet away, maintaining a safe distance. Lucy crosses the threshold and steps inside, and Sue smiles at her with a warm sense of true caring. The door closes behind, and everyone not currently in a viewing position shifts over to a window so they can see what’s going on. But Lucy and Sue are just standing there, far apart, not saying much at all. Sue offers a few words, then Lucy replies. It doesn’t look like much is happening at all. But then Lucy walks back to the door and opens it.

“Spencer,” Lucy says, gesturing for her to follow.

Furrowing her brow, Spencer crosses to meet her and cautiously steps inside. Suzanne immediately slams the door behind them, then runs over to give Spencer a thumbs-up in the window, whatever that’s supposed to mean. It smells horrible in here, what with the very high, very gross pile of dead women just a few feet away. Somewhere, one of them has her face. And Spencer feels incredibly nervous with no bars or walls between herself and Sue, and no weapon in her hand.

“Pervo the Clown!” Sue greets cheerfully, “So glad you could join us, now that you’re back from the dead.” She looks at the mountain of carnage taking up the majority of the room and commends them. “Before I’m needlessly vented into space, I wanted the chance to tell you both, you did a real bang-up job eviscerating these women. This is not-entirely-amateur-quality work.” Looking at Lucy now – who’s still, appropriately, wearing the blood-stained jumpsuit – Sue says, “I’m proud of you, kid. Pissed as a hornet in superglue, yet still strangely proud. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve destroyed everything I’ve ever worked for, but you were always true to who you are, and I admire that about you.”

Lucy doesn’t seem to know what to say, but Spencer gives enough wait time to be sure she’s not stepping on their moment before speaking. Sue sounds resigned to her fate, and that gives Spencer the confidence to be brave.

“Any other final words?” she asks a bit cheekily. “I think our lunch is getting cold upstairs.”

Sue looks at her and says, “You look pretty good for someone I beat the crap out of and then shot in the head.”

Spencer gives a half-shrug and then finds Sue’s eyes, staring her down fearlessly. “Try harder.”

“Since you learned about my science fair down the hall, I’m guessing you did a little Parent Trap swap-aroo. You know, I dated Hayley Mills in college for a semester. Terrible kisser. All tongue, no sense of artistry.”

“Enough bullshit stories! We know you’re a clone,” Spencer says with a little more spite than she means to. “You’ve never even been to Earth.”

“Yeah, well, you can tell just by looking at her mouth that that’s how it would go.” Sue looks both Lucy and Spencer up and down, and sighs. “You went to all this trouble to try to destroy me and my crew. I hate to tell ya, but just like learning multiplication times tables or marriage or prayer, it was a complete and utter waste of time. You kill me today, fine, but then what? You think that means you’ve won? You have no idea what you’re up against.”

Spencer feels braver by the minute. “I know that I got close enough to it that you put a bullet in my skull to stop me.”

“Oh, you mean like this?” Sue walks eight feet to her right and grabs a body by the hair, lifting it half off the ground. It’s the dead clone.

Spencer looks away quickly but not quickly enough, and now she can’t rub the image out of her eyes. It’s burned into her memory – the sickly pale skin, the hole in the forehead and trail of blood and ooze running down from it, the vacant expression in her eyes. And then, the horrible _thud_ of the skull hitting the floor when Sue carelessly drops it.

“You broke into my secret laboratory and enticed me to divulge confidential information with the promise of delicious violence,” Sue says plainly. “I cannot be held accountable for my actions when I was so clearly seduced by dark forces.”

 _“Seduced?!”_  Spencer balks. She’s out of fucks to give and can’t hide her anger anymore. “Do you even listen to the words that come out of your mouth? Do you really not take responsibility for anything you’ve done here? Look around! This is _your fault_. How could you let this happen over and over and over and just do nothing? How could you just let all those girls die?”

“Wow, Spencer, yet again, you’re just chock full of questions. Wasn’t this more fun when you were tied to a chair? Did you want me to start at the top or begin with an outline of all the various ways you and your friends can go screw yourselves?” Sue turns and walks a few steps back, then sits down on a particularly sturdy pile of Boomers about two feet off the ground. She crosses her legs and holds an arm out toward Lucy. “Honestly, I’m surprised Lucy hasn’t slowly sawed you in half with a crafting stick just for being so goddamn annoying. Does anyone even pretend to enjoy your little police activities? Because I find it utterly _exhausting_ and I don’t even have to talk to you more than once a week.”

“Yeah, it must be a real bore with your head so far in the sand that you don’t even notice your inmates getting eaten one by one every month. What’s the going rate on looking the other way these days? There must be some fancy space bank with a secret account with your name on it.”

“Oh, sweet, sweet Cheesecake Face,” Sue says, smiling innocently at Spencer. “You wanna know what I got for keeping your little episodes of Spider, She Wrote off the airwaves? Other than the continuous gift of sanity?”

“There is literally half a giant spider right over there,” Spencer interjects.

Sue ignores her. “I got to chime in on cosmic foreign policy every time one of my inmates was brutally murdered by someone from a rival planet. I got more routine inspections from one Detective Stella Gibson, god rest her soul and her long, long, sumptuous legs.” Sue crosses herself and looks upward, closing her eyes for a moment. “And of course, I got more face time with the President – and, just so you don’t misunderstand: By ‘face time’ I do mean she was sitting on my face for very long extended periods of time.”

Absolutely nowhere in that string of flimsy excuses is proper justification for the murder of ten women. Spencer’s even more upset than she was before. And it’d be nice if Lucy would chime in at any damn moment to give her some backup on the moral outrage piece, but that might be asking too much, considering she’s the one responsible for the current stench and unfortunate background scenery and…furniture.

“So, that’s all that matters to you?” Spencer asks, unable to hide the sound of defeat in her voice. “You wanted some pretty girls to come say hi and let you buy them a drink? And you didn’t care how many innocent people died in the process? Wow. Well, congratulations on being a garbage person, Sue. So much for your bullshit rehabilitation motto.”

“First of all, no one on this ship is ‘innocent.’” Sue makes air-quotes and gestures her head at the crowd of inmates on the other side of the glass. They’re growing more impatient by the minute. “Even Dr. McFriendly has a few outstanding parking tickets, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh, well then,” Spencer says snarkily, “I’m so glad she was half-eaten and bled to death! God forbid the woman can’t park a car IN SPACE.”

Lucy turns her head and asks quietly, “What’s a ca--”

“IT’S LIKE A SHIP BUT ON THE GROUND!” Spencer yells impatiently.

Sue stands up and points accusatorily at Spencer, saying, “Don’t let her speak to you like that, Lucy. This skinny sack of organs isn’t half as smart _or_ talented as you.”

Lucy shifts uncomfortably and looks Sue in the eye. “Maybe if I were smarter, I would’ve known you were lying to me all this time.”

“When did I ever lie to you!” Sue asks in disbelief.

“About where I came from?” Lucy cries, and Spencer’s never seen her so out of control of her own emotions. “About the fact that I grew up on same ship where you’ve had me locked up all these years? And how the company my parents worked for has been right under my cell this whole time? Everything I thought I knew about my life was a LIE.” Without a weapon in her hand, Lucy seems more scared than scary, but she’s powerful in her rage all the same.

Sue’s mouth falls open as she tries to formulate the right rebuttal. “…But other than that!” She beams a big smile with her arms wide, but nobody’s interested.

“I trusted you,” Lucy says through her tears. “I believed you!”

“Well, shame on me for loving you like my own daughter and wanting to do what seemed right for you,” Sue says. “So, whattaya say we kill all these hooligans, just you and me, and then we can start over and go back to the way things were. You can have your pick of the new cellmates and an unlimited craft supply budget, even with glitter, which you know I hate. Or how about a new pink uniform with – wait for it – pockets! Your very own pockets! A pet squid named Blippy, I don’t care! You name it, it’s yours.”

 _“Hurry UP,”_  Tastee calls through a crack in the open door to the room. _“We’re hungry!”_  Then she slams it shut again.

But Sue’s not giving up. “Are you really going to choose these nutjobs over me?” she asks, more than a little hurt by the very idea of it. “They can’t even offer you clean toilet paper. _I’ve_ been taking care of you for ten years!”

Spencer says, “We can handle ourselves.”

“You’re a child! This is a multi-billion-dollar spacecraft, not your mommy’s Jetta. But maybe you’ve already been to the control room and decided it looks enough like your Nintendo Xbox that you can navigate your Twat Pirates through the outer orbits of the galaxy.”

This stops Spencer in her tracks for a moment. It somehow never occurred to her that in their many explorative detours yesterday, they still had yet to find the mainframe computer running this thing. But she can’t back down now.

“We’ve been there, and I can handle it,” she says confidently, crossing her arms.

“THERE IS NO CONTROL ROOM,” Sue yells right in her face, close enough for Spencer to feel a misty spray. “You can’t go anywhere! This ship doesn’t even _have_ an engine!”

“What do you mean?” Spencer says, more than a little scared by this development. From the look on Lucy’s face, this is news to her as well. “There’s an _engine room_.”

Sue handwaves this away. “Just a formality. Raven’s been making good use of it. I would’ve killed to have a room all to myself for liquor and women when I was her age.”

Spencer still doesn’t buy it. “How is there a spaceship without an _engine?_  How did we get…wherever we are?”

“Wouldn’t you know, it’s a safety precaution!” Sue replies. “On the offchance a herd of menstruating psychopaths ever attempted to take over the ship, they wouldn’t be able to go anywhere! Not without calling NASA for a tow first. But I think your AAA membership expired last month. We’ve been getting your mail.”

It doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t make sense. Well, it doesn’t, but it does. It’s a smart move, Spencer concedes, even if she’s the one on the losing end of it. Perhaps it’s irrelevant that they didn’t have anyone to fly this thing or a plan for where to go. It just gave them hope to have options, to have a chance. Now, Spencer realizes they’re stuck in a giant, double-wide space trailer, unable to drive themselves out of the lot.

It’s the ultimate U-Haul. Full of lesbians.

The more she thinks about it, the angrier she becomes. These fifty women are trapped inside a robotic uterus, unable to make directive choices for themselves. If they want to go anywhere, they’ll have to ask permission of the men in power who have no stake in their safety or survival whatsoever.

Spencer’s going to throw up. Which, apparently, Sue finds _hilarious_.

“Wow, you really are as stupid as you look. Just goes to show how much you need me. I’ve got the President of Space coming every month – and I do mean that in every possible way -- so maybe if you grovel enough, I’ll feel inclined to make an appeal for your pathetic, useless life. As slave labor, naturally. I’d kill you but I just don’t feel it’ll be as satisfying the second time around.” Sue steps forward, closing the distance between herself and Spencer. She stops a foot away and leans in. “Kinda blew my wad. Right on your face.”

Lucy steps forward now and moves herself in between Sue and Spencer. “I don’t think I like your tone.”

 _“Spencer!”_  Tastee beckons again. _“Let’s GO! Or you can stay here, that’s cool. If you want to DIE.”_  The door slams shut again.

Fixing her eyes on Sue once more, Spencer takes a few steps backward and tries to muster every ounce of confidence she has left. “You’re the one leaving this room through the back door,” she says through gritted teeth, trying to blink away the tears forming in her eyes. “We don’t need you. We’ve already got your clones from room 20 ready to step in and take your spot.”

Some color drains from the warden’s face.

“Those sex-crazed bimbos?” she scoffs, trying to play it cool. “They don’t know the first thing about running a ship. You’ll starve to death within a month.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Spencer says. “Martha’s upstairs right now making enough food for all of us.” She conveniently leaves out the part about it happening at gunpoint, if it’s even happening at all.

This piques Sue’s interest. “Martha Stewart is a national treasure,” she says. “Boy, are we lucky to have her. They say good protein sources can be a real problem the further you get from the sun, but she and Idgie swapped some classified Southern secrets and came up with a recipe that saved our population. I’m particularly tickled to hear that _you_ enjoy it, I’ll be honest.”

Spencer racks her brain to figure out what Sue might be referring to. “The BSM?”

“I never understood why you all call it that,” Sue says.

“It’s…Big Sweaty Meat.” The look on Spencer’s face as she says the words pretty well mirrors the face she makes when she eats it. “Or so they tell me.”

“Well, that’s absolutely disgusting,” Sue scoffs. “Maybe later you should go tell all your little friends who can’t hear a damn word we’re saying that it’s **E** SM.”

Spencer’s brow furrows, as does Lucy’s.

“Extraneous Scientific Material,” Sue supplies. “But those words are probably too big for them to understand. So just tell them it’s made from reprocessed meat of clones like the two of you who don’t complete the growth cycle properly.”

 _Oh my god,_ Spencer realizes _. Faith was right._

“It seemed a shame just to waste it, and I couldn’t have Beyoncé eating all that fatty fat you seem genetically predisposed to develop. We kept the usable slabs of muscle, sliced ‘em up nice and round, and pitched the rest out to her. Becky got all excited about getting to use some canning supplies she inherited from her grandparents after they died in that tragic, horrible fire she probably started.” She thinks for a moment, then adds, “You know, we could just say it stands for Botched Spencer Meat. I think that has a nice ring to it, don’t you?”

In that moment, Spencer can feel the squishy, tasteless meat in her mouth; she can feel the gelatinous sauce that surrounds it sticking between her teeth. She can hear the sounds that resound in her jawbones when she chews it over and over and over until it’s swallowable. And now, knowing that this whole time she was actually consuming _herself_ , that everyone in that cafeteria was eating her ground up skin and muscles, Spencer’s body reacts swiftly and strongly. In fact, the stream of vomit travels far enough to land on one of the dead bodies near the base of the pile some six feet away.

“NOT ON HER, YOU BITCH!” Sue yells with fire blazing in her eyes and steps toward Spencer threateningly, but Lucy intercedes, blocking the path with her body and arms out. But Sue runs past Spencer altogether and kneels down to examine the recipient of the spew.

Spencer’s still too busy puking to really pay much attention, but she’s fairly certain she’s never seen this woman before. She’s blonde and very pretty (for a dead lady), and she’s dressed in a very fancy outfit. It’s a shame that the bottom half of it is now covered in the contents of Spencer’s stomach. This must be the infamous inspector, the one Sue’s supposedly in love with. The one she killed. And now Spencer has made it even worse, because she wasn’t quite high up enough on Sue’s shit list yet.

When she’s able to open her mouth without sludge coming out of it, Spencer mumbles, “Sorry.” She’s so tired of throwing up. So very, very tired.

Sue holds a finger close to her face and points it at Spencer. “How DARE you defile this immaculate woman with your filthy slime? It’s YOUR fault she’s dead! Do you know how hard I worked to keep that from happening? This isn’t my first rodeo, despite what you may think. If you’d kept your fingers in your asses and left well enough alone, every single one of these people would still be alive.”

Spencer has already thought this herself, of course, but it sounds a lot worse when Sue says it out loud.

 _“SPENCER!”_  Tastee yells. _“THIRTY SECONDS.”_

 _“No, tell her_ now _,” Suzanne says._

 _“I mean, NOW!”_  Tastee says and closes the door again.

With the final countdown upon her, Sue channels her desperation into one final hail-Mary. Turning to Lucy, she points at Spencer and cries, “SHE MADE ME KILL YOUR MOTHER.”

Both girls’ faces scrunch in confusion. _“I_ killed my mother,” Lucy says plainly.

Sue walks over to the cold, rotting body of Stella Gibson, now freshly covered in stomach acid and waffles, and kneels down to brush her bangs away from the bullet hole. “No, Lucy, this is your mother. The most beautiful woman who ever lived.”

Spencer’s chest muscles clench tightly at the revelation, and her stomach drops, so she can only imagine what Lucy must be feeling in this moment.

“My parents were scientists,” Lucy says. There’s an edge to her tone that reflects the very thin thread that is holding her collective shit together. “They raised me and they betrayed me, and I sliced them in half. That’s what happened!”

“Those were your adoptive parents,” Sue says from her kneeling position, then stands up. “Stella was your birth mother.”

Spencer’s mind is spinning like a yo-yo, unable to make traction but dizzying all the same. Looking at the dead woman’s face, she can certainly see the resemblance, but it still seems so crazy. And based on Lucy’s mental state last night after the day’s rampage and lab discoveries, pulling the rug out from under her any further won’t end well. Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if Lucy kills Sue herself before Big Boo has the chance to push that button.

But, speaking of…

Lucy steels her expression and steps closer to Sue. “Tell me everything you know, right now.” It isn’t a negotiation. It’s the terms for Sue to keep breathing.

Spencer takes the opportunity to slip over to the door and wave to Suzanne through the window, motioning for her to open it. “Send Mack upstairs to the kitchen,” she says through the small opening. “Tell her we can’t kill Sue until every single case of BSM is down here. Send your friends with her to carry it if you want, just hurry.”

Suzanne listens with wide eyes and nods along with every word, then continues nodding after Spencer’s done talking. And then it just becomes weird.

“Go!” Spencer prompts, then pushes the door closed and walks back over to where Sue’s still talking. She and Lucy are now both sitting on piles of dead Boomers like they’re footstools from Ikea. Spencer doesn’t want to interrupt their moment, so she stands behind Lucy with arms crossed and just listens.

“ –- couldn’t have children of their own. So, they adopted from a young woman who realized six months in that she wanted a career more than a baby. But once they got you,” – Sue’s eyes light up with love and a smile – “they loved you so much, they wanted even more children like you. They reached out to the birth mother,” Sue looks over at Stella, “but she said no. So, they took matters into their own hands.”

“Because starting a rogue cloning experiment is a totally reasonable reaction,” Spencer says. It’s blowing her mind – all this time, Lucy’s mother was alive, and she didn’t know it. And it sounds like, based on their encounter with Sue and the detective earlier, Lucy met her mother briefly without knowing who it was. Spencer’s heart is in her throat, heavy with guilt and regret. She knows she’s partially responsible for what happened after that. After all, it was her plan to send the decoy to the office and her idea to have Lucy and Quinn pretend to be guards.

“Why keep it a secret?” Lucy says in that same low, husky voice Quinn uses when she’s pissed as nails. “Why lie to me?”

“I couldn’t tell you because it would put you in danger,” Sue says. “There are places where human cloning isn’t exactly legal. Take, for instance, the entire planet Earth. The President, however, has no problem working with the jurisdictional murkiness of space. ‘In the event of a Cylon attack’, blah blah, ‘human cloning can boost population regrowth’ or some crazy himmerygimmery like that.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Others, like your mother and her department, wouldn’t look the other way. And because I’m not a complete and utter moron, when I inherited this ship and learned the most valuable clone prototype was the daughter of the Deputy Inspector, I decided to keep my big, gay mouth shut.”

“Until now,” Lucy says through her pain. “Right before we kill you.”

“Well, there’s only so much I can do when she shows up here out of the blue! Thank god she didn’t recognize you when you and Quinn decided to play Bobbsey Twins and sabotage me. She’d only come here once before, right after your little chainsaw massacre down the hall. The first one, I mean. Fun fact: She was the prosecutor who oversaw your life sentencing!”

“Didn’t she know it was her daughter?” Spencer can’t help but ask.

“Your guess is as good as mine. But that was ten years ago, and if she _did_ know who you are, I didn’t want her to see Quinn first. It would’ve broken her heart to see her beautiful baby had picked up such a nasty habit.”

Spencer can’t keep herself from saying, “Serial killing?”

“Nicotine! Just as addictive and a leading cause of brain cancer among kids ages five to ten. I would’ve had to tell her that pink-headed smokestack wasn’t you,” Sue looks at Lucy, “just your porn-obsessed, dumpster-diving, identical twin sister. Stella would’ve then remembered that only one bullet came out of her baby cannon that day and know you must be wrapped up in a cloning scheme. I probably would’ve been locked up right alongside you.” Sue sounds the most earnest when she says, “And it would’ve absolutely torpedoed my chances with your mother.”

Spencer rolls her eyes at this woman’s priorities.

“So,” Sue continues, “I put Skank-a-licious safely out of sight for a few hours while the inspection played out. Until you came and screwed that up,” she says pointedly to Spencer, “and left me no choice but to kill _the love of my life_ and this poor girl’s only real family. But hey, great police work.”

Spencer doesn’t know what to say to that. “I didn’t mean –” but there isn’t an adequate end to that sentence.

Sue focuses back on Lucy and stands again, leaving behind a dent the size of her ass in one Boomer’s back. “I love you, kid. I always have. I’ve raised you like you were my own. I give you special treatment -- I don’t deny that – but only because you’re better than literally everyone else in the universe. I give you what you want, who you want; I keep you well fed and happy and rolling in fingerpaint,” Sue chuckles.

“Then why not let her go?” Spencer asks.

“To go where? You killed thirty-seven people, sweetheart,” Sue says matter-of-factly, looking at Lucy now. “But I could protect you in here and take care of you and love you like the bastard murder princess that you are.” She means it quite sincerely. “And I knew that eventually the detective would figure out who you were and come back. Maybe not to talk but just to check on you. So, I gave you a pink jumpsuit. That way, if Stella did ever decide to show up, she could find you, see you’re happy and healthy, and leave.”

Lucy looks down at the blood-soaked uniform, eyes slow to rise again. Her voice is shaky and a bit thin when she says, “I just thought you wanted me to feel special.”

Spencer has to look away, her emotions are starting to get the best of her. Seeing Lucy this weak and heartbroken is hard enough, but now Spencer can’t help but picture her own mother walking through the halls looking for her, wanting nothing but to find her and make sure her little girl is okay. Only to just walk out on her again. It takes all Spencer’s strength to hold back the flood of emotions fighting in her throat.

For all the times Mack came at Spencer for judging Lucy, saying, _“You don’t know what her life has been like!”_ , Mack sure as hell didn’t know, either. She didn’t know shit.

“Of course I want you to feel special,” Sue says. “I know I lied to you. I know there’s a lot I didn’t tell you. But I had to prepare for the worst. I never knew when the phone would ring and it’d be Stella telling me she was coming to take you away. I could’ve easily put Quinn or any other clone into a pink jumpsuit at any time and said it was you. But I didn’t, because I wanted you to have a chance with your real mother if she ever wanted you like that.”

“Did she?” Lucy asks, forcing the words past her teeth.

“I don’t know,” Sue says. She looks like she wishes this wasn’t the case. “I’m sorry.”

Spencer’s on the edge of tears with the weight of this. “Then why’d you kill her? If you really wanted Lucy to have that chance. _You_ should’ve been the one to tell her the truth, not just play a waiting game. And now it’s too late.” Whether Sue was jealous of Stella’s innate connection to Lucy or just scared Spencer was going to reveal all Sue’s secrets, it doesn’t mean this woman should be dead.

Sue considers this for a moment, then refocuses on Lucy, her eyes shining with regret. There’s nothing she can say to make it right. “Can you forgive me?” She’s never looked so vulnerable, so human.

Before Lucy can answer, the door swings open and Poussey peeks her head in. “Hey, we got it.”

“Thanks. Watch Sue for a sec,” she says to the bouncer trio. Spencer walks over to Lucy and pulls her aside, “Hey.”

Gently tugging on her arm, they step off to the side and stand with their faces close as Big Boo and Tastee and a few others file in and start surrounding Sue, pinning her between the pile of bodies and the airlock door.

“You okay?” Spencer asks her, then reaches up to wipe away what remains of a stray tear by Lucy’s nose. “I’m sorry about Stella.”

“It’s fine,” Lucy lies. She won’t meet Spencer’s eyes but can’t seem to focus on anything else.

“I think the mob wants Sue gone for good. But I can try to get her back to Solitary if that’s what you want.” Spencer waits a beat and adds, “It’s your call.”

Lucy looks over at Sue now. She’s pacing back and forth behind the bodies and trying not to trip over various limbs in her path. They’re trading verbal jabs, mostly nonsensical and unnecessarily threatening, and Spencer knows this standoff won’t hold out much longer.

“I won’t stop you,” Lucy says, not taking her eyes off her former mentor. It’s barely a whisper, laden with resigned sadness, but the words hang heavy in the air. She walks out slowly without looking back.

Spencer takes a deep breath and follows behind, not to stop her, but to take control of the current situation at hand. She’ll catch up with Lucy later; she probably needs to be alone right now, anyway. So, Spencer refocuses and calls out as loudly as she can, “Everybody come in here!” She waves a beckoning hand so those looking through the windows can see. “Grab one of those boxes and line up against the windows. Make sure Sue stays where she is. By the other dead women.”

“You think this is scary?” Sue yells, still trying to find an opening to get to the door, but the room’s getting more crowded by the second. “Try waking up covered in fire ants because someone left you bound, gagged, and covered in chocolate sauce after you slept with their ex-girlfriend’s brother’s cousin’s best friend who voted for Jimmy Carter. THAT’S scary.”

But no one’s listening. Lexa, Alice, Clarke, Regina, and Lucy Diamond file in next, each carrying a cardboard box with a red “BSM” stamp on the side, and nobody looks like they’re fucking around. Soon there are at least forty women, maybe more, standing shoulder to shoulder, two rows deep, all facing the warden like a firing squad. Today, they are both her jury and executioners.

“Bring them all in,” Spencer says as a few stragglers enter with more boxes. “Stack those over there.”

The only person Spencer can see is still on the other side of the glass is Lucy. She’s waiting at the docking bay controls, standing by the airlock mechanism. Maybe guarding it, maybe deciding if she wants to expel the whole lot of them. But at least she’s not interfering with Spencer’s next move.

When everyone’s inside, Spencer speaks up again to get their attention. She feels a bit like Bill Pullman in Independence Day, about to deliver some rousing speech to her loyal patriots, except that these people aren’t loyal to her and she’s doing this totally on the fly. Not to mention she’s pretty sure the film didn’t have accidental cannibalism.

“We’re all prisoners,” she starts. “We all did something that somebody decided earned us a one-way ticket to this hellhole. Maybe we deserved it, maybe we didn’t. But we all were told that justice was done. Today, _we_ get to decide what justice is.”

 _“Vent her ass out already!”_ someone yells, and the women around her start cheering in agreement.

“Oh, shut your trap, Funbags,” Sue spits back. She picks up a severed arm from the body pile and chucks it at the inmates, but they duck out of the way in time. It strikes the window with a _smack_ and falls to the floor. Mack runs to grab it and throw it back hard right away. She misses Sue by at least ten feet.

“Before we say goodbye to Sue forever,” Spencer says, waving her arms to quiet them down again, “I thought you should know what she told me today. This food she’s been serving us, it wasn’t delivered by any cargo ship or ordered from any nearby planet.” She waits a beat, then reveals, “It’s people. It’s _us_.” There’s a collective variety of responses from confusion to disgust as the reality of what she’s saying sets in. “It’s the ground-up flesh of girls who have died on this ship.” Just saying the words makes Spencer want to die a little. And while she’s stretching the truth a bit, it doesn’t really matter at this point.

“What the FUCK?” Big Boo asks, carefully annunciating each syllable clearly. Her voice stands out over the general rumble that’s forming. “What in the mother _fucking FUCK”?!_

“In my defense,” Sue says pointlessly, “they were already dead!”

“So I thought,” Spencer says, “if we’re sending Sue out with the trash, let’s get rid of _all_ –”

Her sentence is cut off by something flying through the air and the ensuing scream of horror. Sue’s mouth is hanging open in shock, and her chest is covered in brown sludge that’s dripping from her in chunks. Meanwhile, the women standing near Idgie are giving her high fives and laughing. Then, she reaches a hand back into an open can of BSM and pulls out a fistful of the grayish-brown meat and hurls another fastball at Sue, who ducks. It misses her face by inches and splatters against the airlock wall, but Sue can’t evade the immediate follow-up from Johanna that strikes her square in the cheek.

Within seconds, everyone is ripping into the boxes and smashing cans on the ground to dent them until they can pry a lid open. (Many quickly give up and just throw the sealed cans as is.) There are enough prisoners in the attack that the onslaught is constant and relentless once it begins. Spencer isn’t sure how her motivational speech turned into the most disgusting food fight she’s ever seen (if she can even call this “food” anymore), but this is exactly what’s happening, with or without her blessing. The noise is deafening – cans banging on the ground, inmates screaming battle cries and jeers, the repetitive juicy sound of BSM connecting with Sue and the door. Every time Sue opens her mouth to yell something back, or even just open her eyes to stay grounded and stand strong, they’re filled with even more sticky sludge. The more she fights back, the worse it becomes. But fight she does, blindly throwing back a handful here and there as she’s able, in between rounds of meaty assault.

Watching it happen, this absolutely surreal experience of covering a woman head to toe in a horrifically disgusting substance, Spencer can’t help but feel a bit bad for Sue. She wouldn’t have wished this fate on anyone. Probably. And yet, when she remembers just what that mess is made of and all the times Sue did nothing to help all the girls who died, this seems like nothing. Nothing at all.

It’s several minutes before the momentum begins to wane. One by one, the women run out of ammo and start making their way out of the docking bay to take safe harbor behind the glass again and watch the rest play out. _(And then hopefully to wash their hands.)_  Spencer’s stayed out of the fray, aside from some residual splatter on her uniform, and slowly makes her way toward the door to ensure her escape when the moment is right.

There must have been a dozen cases of BSM, because now Sue can’t take a step without slipping in it, and she’s very quickly struggling to stay standing. When the coast is clear, she wipes away the collected mess in her eyes and nose and grunts angrily in a rage, then falls back over again.

“YOU’LL NEVER GET AWAY WITH THIS,” she shouts at no one in particular, looking furiously around the room for anyone she can attack. The only faces she sees are in the distance, blurred from the reflection of the bright lights against the windows. “EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU IS GOING TO DIE SCREAMING!” They can’t hear her, but she doesn’t seem to care.

That’s when Sue sees the one person still left alone with her.

“So,” Spencer says cheerfully, kneeling down to meet Sue at eye level. “I hear you like to kill people.” She can’t deny the little rush of pleasure that brings. After all, they were the first words Sue ever said to her.

Sue clenches her fists at her sides and scowls, not unlike a dog showing its teeth.

“You’re a tough woman, Sylvester,” Spencer mocks, even pacing a little for added effect. “Determined, ambitious, mentally unstable but with an arrogant flair and a smile that shows off your crazy-eyes. You remind me of a lot of my friend Lucy, here. Only, at least we had the basic sense not to turn the dead bodies into meatloaf.” Spencer holds her gaze for a moment to let that sink in, then looks to her left, where the whole prison is watching. “Oh yeah, and better friends.”

“You think you’re winning?” Sue says. “You’re as good as dead, all of you. They’re going to come looking for me. You have no idea how important I am!”

Spencer takes a few more steps toward the door and stops to consider this point, tilting her head in mock thought. She never knew having the shoe on the other foot could feel so good. She’s earned this moment. Squinting a bit, she asks, “Are you? A woman who sells out innocent girls for political power? I’ve just got this hunch you’re on your own.” Spencer stops and savors the moment. “But what do I know? Maybe your ‘friends’ are just stuck in traffic.”

Sue tries to run toward her but only slips and falls face-first into the now even more disgusting pile of dead bodies. Her raging, primal screams get buried in the fresh new layer of god-knows-what that’s now in her mouth.

Spencer swings the door open and turns to offer one last phrase, relishing her victory. “This is my favorite part,” she says, as if sharing a treasured secret. And with that, she slams the door and bolts the crossbar on the other side, securing the seal.

With a deep breath, Spencer turns to her left, where Lucy is still standing by the big red button. Looking out at their victim together, she doesn’t know what to say. They’re about to kill someone, and it’s certainly pre-meditated. This time, it’s personal, as they say. And when they do this, there’s no going back. They’re really on their own – and on the run -- for the rest of their lives.

Taking Lucy’s hand in her own, Spencer moves them both together until they’re gently resting on top of the airlock switch. “For Stella,” Spencer finally offers, looking at Lucy.

With a deep exhale, Lucy’s fingers tighten their weave around Spencer’s and squeeze. “For all of them.”

And with that, their palms press down and rotates ninety degrees to the right as the mechanism activates. Red lights flash and alarms sound inside the control room, but there’s nothing wrong. Spencer wraps her fingers around Lucy’s and watches with her as the docking bay depressurizes and prepares to open. Sue’s flailing and screaming in a fury, but it’s silent and futile. She can’t reach them anymore. She’s never going to hurt anyone ever again.

Ten seconds later, the airlock doors begin to separate, and the entire contents of the docking bay immediately shift and get sucked toward the opening. Bodies and limbs make their way through gaps like pick-up sticks, one by one, including the newly frozen and suffocated Sue Sylvester. Spencer hopes that her clone will slam right into Sue’s stupid face on her way out.

In the rapid chaos of the physics of space playing out right before Spencer’s eyes, she tries to follow Sue’s body, if only for the satisfaction of knowing the warden is truly dead and gone. But just as quickly as the vacuum sucks her out into the void, the gigantic jaws of Beyoncé the shark emerge without warning and collect most of Sue in one bite. (Spencer jumps and screams for the third time, and is now just pissed about it.) With a few more clumsy but effective chomps, the space beast finds a few more pieces of bodies for dinner as they pass quickly by. Others bounce off her surface and scatter in random directions. Then, as if finally sated, the shark opts not to restart her orbit around the ship, but instead turns at a sharp angle and sails (swims?) away.

“Y’all hungry or what?” comes a voice from behind them. It’s Aphasia.

And while a part of Spencer feels she’ll never eat food again, _ever_ , there certainly is more than enough to celebrate today over a cup of orange juice from concentrate and some of Martha Slewgurt’s famous fish stick tacos.

“Come on,” Spencer says to Lucy with a small smile. “Let’s take the stairs.”


	68. Forward Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

After the thrilling experience of steps, Lucy’s ready to lie down for a well-earned nap. (The emotional mother-reveal likely played into it, too.) Spencer walks her to cell 1 and sees her safely inside, tucking Lucy in with a kiss. “Get some rest,” she says. “I’m gonna go check on the others.”

By the time Spencer catches up to them, she can tell from the disappointed groans and bickering that even though food is ready, their eating space is still a disaster. Hermione is there, awake and standing but very cranky.

“No, I will _not_ just ‘magic it away,’ ” she says to Lucy Diamond. “We don’t yet know if this wand can be trusted, and I’m not going to use it without testing it first in a safe location. For all we know, it could bring the spiders back to life to eat _us_ for lunch.”

Sure enough, Spencer can see there’s a wand in Hermione’s hand, but not the same one as before. Her previous one had winding designs, like ivy around the shaft. This one is more like a series of small round discs pushed together on a kebob. One round one in the middle, right above Hermione’s hand, is bright pink.

“Hey. Where’d that come from?” Spencer asks, glancing down at the wand.

“It belonged to Umbridge,” Hermione says. “Aphasia took it from her desk months ago when she was looking for mine. Of course, Umbridge thought _I_ stole it, since we have a history, and not a good one. She never found it, obviously, and could never prove it was me, much as she tried.”

Spencer’s eyes widen, still stuck on the fundamental fact of the matter. _“Umbridge_ was a…” _Is ‘witch’ derogatory?_  “…She could do magic?”

Tastee speaks up, not giving a shit about this backstory. “So, who’s gonna clean all this up? My tacos aren’t getting any warmer.”

“Unfortunately,” Hermione says to Spencer. “She worked at my school for a year. It was dreadful. I can tell you about it over lunch, assuming we ever get to eat.”

Poussey comes in with hands full of bottles and sponges and scrub brushes. “There’s more in the closet out there.”

A few at a time, the women file back outside and start gathering supplies. The bodies of Violet, Corky, Sarah Connor, and the others were removed yesterday, which helps Spencer feel like she might eventually be able to eat in this room again. But not until a lot of bleaching has occurred.

It takes a little under an hour for the fifty or so women to get the job done – scrubbing the tables, scraping paint and blood and guts off the floor, putting all the furniture back into something resembling order. The family that fights together wipes together, Spencer supposes. (Or, screams together, cleans together? She’ll keep working on it.)

There’s no way they can reach the ceiling, but they collectively decide to let it be. In a way, it’s art, like a mural. The multicolored splotches and smears from the paintball battle stand in testament to their fight for their freedom. So long as a crusty, old, dead bee doesn’t fall into Spencer’s food, she thinks it’s a solid redecoration move.

It feels strange filing through the line with her tray like everything is normal, but at least there aren’t any guards hustling them along this time. As Spencer reaches the front, she sees Martha Stewart angrily folding tacos and placing them on trays in the rear of the kitchen. Quinn’s still back there as well, sitting on a stool nearby with the gun on her lap and a lit cigarette in her hand. Martha uses her apron to fan away a cloud of smoke that drifts in her direction. She makes a snide comment that Spencer can’t hear, but it’s enough to make Quinn threaten her with the gun again.

When the moment dissipates, Spencer calls out to her girlfriend and waves her over. Martha gives them both a nasty side-eye as Quinn passes and blows another stream of smoke directly onto her current batch of tacos

“You okay?” Spencer asks.

Quinn leans against the counter with one arm and looks back at her charge. “Nobody ever tells you that being the muscle is incredibly boring.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Spencer says with a small smile.

A few more girls walk by and take trays and give them polite hellos. Quinn flicks some ashes at Martha, takes one more drag, and puts out the cigarette on the taco closest to her. Just in time for Aphasia to grab that tray.

“Thanks for holding down the fort here,” Spencer says. “You missed quite a show downstairs.”

“Is that what all the meat was for?”

“Yeah, kind of.” Spencer shifts uncomfortably and turns so her back is to the kitchen. “We airlocked Sue,” she says quietly.

Quinn looks out over the cafeteria, surveying all the conversations and socializing she’s not a part of. “Sorry I missed that.”

“Me too. Everybody went into the docking bay and starting throwing BSM at her. It was…wild.”

Quinn lets out a small laugh. “Whose idea was that?”

“Idgie’s, I think?” Spencer says. “Sue said the ‘meat’ was really leftovers from DYAD, so...”

“Leftovers?” Quinn asks. “Like…” She tilts her head forward and raises an eyebrow suggestively at Spencer. But not the good kind of suggestive when she’s silently propositioning they go fuck in a bathroom -- the bad kind of suggestive where she’s implying that she and her friends have spent years eating dead human girls.

“Yeah,” Spencer confirms. “Shockingly, nobody was thrilled to hear that.”

“Do you think the scientists know that’s what was happening?” Quinn asks. “I don’t really picture them in the canning business.”

“No idea. But there’s going to be a discussion.” Spencer sees Hermione and Aphasia wave her over from their regular table. Most of the women seem to be back in their usual spots. There are some empty seats now, but it still feels good to return to a sense of normalcy, whatever that means. Spencer grabs a tray and says, “You coming to sit down?”

“Soon. Gotta muscle Martha back home first.” Quinn looks over her shoulder to make sure the galaxy’s Most Wanted Chef isn’t about to assault her with a rolling pin.

“Okay. Good luck,” Spencer says and starts toward her friends. She makes a mental note to work on that problem as soon as possible. It’s certainly not sustainable for Quinn to have to stand over this woman every single meal.

“Hey,” Quinn says, calling Spencer back, “I was thinking about something.”

“What’s up?”

There’s a beat of hesitation, then Quinn says carefully, “Maybe you shouldn’t move into 10.”

The clanging of trays and cups and silverware comes into hyperfocus over the dull hum of chatter and laughter surrounding Spencer. Whatever appetite she had fades away, quickly replaced by disappointment and frustration in the pit of her stomach. She screwed it up. She was supposed to stay with Quinn last night, and instead she chose Lucy, and now she’s being punished. For all of Quinn’s talk of how Spencer can have both of them like she wants, now there’s a petty consequ—

“Now that 20 is open,” Quinn continues, “I thought we could move there instead. Just us.”

Spencer’s mouth falls open a bit, and she tries to recover from her gross misunderstanding of the situation. “So you can be as far away from Lucy as possible,” she digs playfully.

Quinn shrugs, “Added bonus.”

Spencer smiles big and blushes, looking down at the floor. “Well, I love that idea. I’ll get my stuff after lunch.”

Quinn blushes too and nods to acknowledge the agreement. Spencer suddenly feels like she’s talking to a middle school crush, so she says goodbye and makes her way quickly to the open seat next to Aphasia. It doesn’t take much pressing to spill the beans on the latest development in her relationship. They certainly knew something was up – Hermione said she’d never seen Spencer looking so happy.

“I’m just glad all the death and spider shit is all over,” Spencer says, taking a bite out of an overcooked fish stick. “Finally get some peace and quiet around here. Relatively speaking.”

Aphasia rips a bite out of a stale tortilla. “Yeah, hopefully it won’t be too loud down there.”

“Where?” Spencer asks.

“In 20.”

Spencer blushes. “We’ll try to keep it down.” She looks away and reaches for another fish stick, dipping it in ketchup that might just be red fingerpaint.

“No,” Aphasia clarifies, “I mean I hope it’s not too loud for y’all right there by the engine room.”

“If I can survive Mack’s spank noises,” Spencer says, “I can handle the sound of a distillery.”

Hermione swallows a sip of water and sets down her cup. “It’s more that the engine might be terribly loud. But then, the walls here do seem fairly soundproof? I wouldn’t worry.”

Spencer realizes – nobody else must know what Sue told her. She pushes her tray aside and sets her elbows on the table, leaning in to tell her big secret. Aphasia and Hermione both lean in slightly to mirror her motion.

“You’re not going to believe this, but it turns out…there is no engine.” Spencer gives a quick look to either side of her to make sure nobody else heard. “It’s just been a lie.”

Aphasia sits up straight again, looking as pissed as ever. “Then what the hell has Raven been doing?”

“Beats me. Working on the gravity, I guess? And plumbing, I think? Maybe?” Spencer’s not been too clear on what Raven’s responsible for under Sue’s employ. Separate from all the vodka-making and sleeping around.

“She don’t need all my stuff for that,” Aphasia spits angrily, then gets up and storms out of the cafeteria.

Hermione calls out to her, then looks back at Spencer before following after her girlfriend.

“What is she talking about?” Spencer asks as Hermione’s stepping away.

“Come on,” she beckons, and leads Spencer out the door, leaving their trays and half-eaten lunch behind in the noise.

****************

Hermione begins to jog when she sees Aphasia is already down the cell block and out of view. “Aphasia!” she calls out, and picks up her pace.

All Spencer can do is follow as they blow past each of the twenty empty cells, turning right to approach the engine room door. Aphasia is already there, knocking impatiently. She sees Hermione coming up behind her and says, “If this room is empty, she better be the next person you evaporate off this ship.”

_“Apparate.”_

_“Whatever.”_  Aphasia pounds again twice. “Raven! Don’t you make me kick this door in!” More pounding. “Raven!”

“Here,” Hermione says. “Wait. Let me try.” She reaches into her uniform sleeve and withdraws Umbridge’s wand, adjusting her grip and pointing it at the door. She doesn’t have the same usual confidence in her eyes, but then, she did say this wand was untested. Maybe if it’s bad, it’ll lock the door forever or something. _“Alohamora_.”

Nothing.

Hermione sighs in frustration and curses quietly, examining the wand as if expecting to see a flaw.

“’It uses a key card,” Spencer offers. The wand magic didn’t work downstairs, so she’s not surprised it didn’t work now. “I’ve got one.” She reaches into her shoe and withdraws Sue’s silver card, holding it up to the reader beside the doorframe.

The locking mechanism clicks and releases as the door moves open an inch with a quiet hiss. Aphasia immediately steps forward and kicks it hard, like a cop busting in on a drug dealer’s apartment. But the force is so great that the door swings all the way open, hits the wall, and bounces back, closing and locking again. There’s an awkward silence, then Spencer steps forward again with the key and scans it.

This time, Aphasia pushes the door with her shoulder and goes barreling into the room. “Raven!”

Hermione follows her with Spencer right behind, though Spencer seems to be the only one startled by what’s taking up most of the space in the room. It’s…well, she honestly doesn’t know what the hell it is. A giant contraption, like if someone took a junkyard and hooked all the pieces together like that old Mouse Trap game. In fact, the only thing indicating it’s _not_ just a pile of trash is that Spencer can see large empty spaces in between segments of components. It’s been intentionally sculpted and organized this way.

There are metal cans hammered flat and nailed together like a quilt, creating panels several feet long. Connected to those are long metal bolts and wires, so very many wires, and some thicker cables on the ends. And what looks like…kitchen tools? Featuring a silver colander mounted to the motorized bottom of a blender, if Spencer’s not mistaken. There’s one of the aquarium tanks – swiped from downstairs, she recognizes --  and strategically positioned lamps for visibility down low where the overhead light is blocked. Near the top is a giant bundle of popsicle sticks held together by a belt. On the side, jump ropes and WWMD rubber bracelets wrapped around large wooden spools. The more Spencer looks at this thing, the less she has any fucking idea what it’s supposed to be or do. She’s never seen a vodka production plant, but it can’t look like this, can it?

“What _is_ this thing?” she asks, but Aphasia’s too busy peeking around every corner looking for the missing mechanic.

“It’s my goddamn masterpiece,” comes a voice from behind them.

Aphasia turns on a dime and runs at Raven full speed. Spencer braces for the impact of Aphasia’s fist against the girl’s face, but instead, Aphasia wraps her arms around Raven and squeezes. “Where the hell have you been? Pastings got me all twisted up thinking something happened to you. She said this was gone and I was like, fuck.”

Raven hugs her back and looks over at Spencer curiously. “I’m fine. I was out looking for one more piece.”

“I hope you found it,” Hermione says. “They broke my wand. I don’t think I can get safely in and out anymore with the one I have now. It isn’t worth the risk if I’m unable to protect myself.”

Spencer had forgotten all about that. Hermione’s just as trapped now as the rest of them. Whatever implications that has for their relationship or for the war back home Aphasia mentioned, Spencer can talk through her feelings about it later. Right now, she has to figure out what the hell is happening in this room.

“Yeah, I heard,” Raven says. “Hopefully we can find something on board that’ll work.”

“What else you need?” Aphasia asks. “You told her to tell me it was done.” She gestures at Spencer, sounding just as mad at her as she is at Raven.

“It is. Mostly.” Raven walks over to the far side of the…whatever it is…and points to an area under a lot of random things tied together. “I need to be able to lift this panel and close it when I need to keep the circuitry away from the fuel line. If I just bend the metal repeatedly, it’ll wear thin and break. I need something like a big hinge. I was just checking in the gyms to see if there was any old sports equipment that could work, like a catcher’s mask or something.”

“You mean something that moves like this?” Aphasia puts her hands flat together and then opens them, keeping the heel of her palms together. “Yeah. I’ll be right back.” She heads out the door, making sure not to let it close all the way.

Spencer looks again at the six-foot-tall, five-foot-wide junkyard casserole. “Okay, you’re gonna have to explain to me how a colander and wires and some popsicle sticks makes vodka, because this is blowing my mind right now.”

Raven stares at her, looking offended. “It doesn’t make vodka.” There’s a pause, then she points to the far corner of the room, back by a bunk-sized mattress on the floor, where a series of brass containers is connected with plastic tubing. The whole set-up probably takes up four square feet and looks pitiful in comparison to whatever this other thing is. _“That_ makes vodka.” Looking back at her masterpiece, she smiles and says, “This is what’s gonna save us.”

“If it works,” Hermione says under her breath.

“It’ll work.” Raven’s back to being annoyed again. “Sounds like we’re out of other options, anyway.”

“I’ve done the best that I can,” Hermione says in her defense. “Let’s hope you’ve done the same.”

The door bursts open again, and Aphasia runs in, breathing heavily. “I got it.” She proudly holds out her Thighmaster with one hand on each side, extending it to Raven, then pumps it a few times to show her how it moves.

A smile breaks out across Raven’s face. “Excellent.” She takes the item and crosses the room to open a tool box, removing a medium-sized screwdriver and walking back to the machine. “I need a few minutes to get this attached. You guys go get the fuel.”

Hermione and Aphasia both nod and head for the door, but Spencer’s patience is wearing thin. “Fuel?! Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

Raven looks up from her fiddling and says with no lack of condescension, “This is an engine room, Spencer. This is an engine.”

“An engine.”

“Yep.”

Spencer blinks. “…for this ship.”

“Yep. Hand me some washers?”

Spencer knows what all these words are, but they’re not forming logical thoughts. There is no stretch of the imagination that could make this collection of Goodwill rejects an actual functioning system, much less one that could power a spaceship. The only thing Spencer can make sense of right now is what a washer is, so she heads toward the tool box, rummages around until she finds them, and takes them to Raven.

“I just…” Spencer starts, looking at components she can now see from this side – bicycle gears, the buckle from an airline seatbelt, a piece of chain link fence – “I have no idea how this is supposed to work.” She gives a little laugh, like the entire concept is preposterous simply because she doesn’t understand it.

“Good thing I do.” Raven reaches for a stray piece of tubing and connects it to a pipe on the panel. “It’s taken almost two years to get all these pieces together. I’m dying to finally try it out.” She tightens another screw and moves the metal panel now attached to the Thighmaster up and down. From the light in her eyes, it’s working exactly as planned.

Aphasia saves the day once again.

“Oh good,” Raven says, looking toward the door. Hermione and Aphasia are back, each lugging a gallon milk jug in each hand. “Bring one over here and put the rest against the wall.”

Hermione sets hers down and shakes out her sore fingers while Aphasia hands one jug to Raven. She opens it and pours it slowly into the aquarium tank, then reaches out a hand for a second jug. The liquid isn’t golden brown like gasoline, it’s perfectly clear, which is odd. Spencer can’t smell anything new in the air, either.

“Is that…water?” she asks.

“Can’t burn water,” Raven says. She thanks Aphasia, who’s on her way out to go get more jugs with Hermione, then looks back at Spencer as she sets the second empty jug aside. “Thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

“Well, pardon me for being a little confused,” Spencer says. “Sue said this ship didn’t have an engine.”

“It didn’t. So, I built one.” Raven moves the two jugs Hermione first brought into the far corner to make room for more. “I guess I didn’t like the thought of being stuck in one place for the rest of my life.”

“Sue didn’t know you were doing this?”

Raven laughs. “Sue wouldn’t know if her head was on fire. I gave her some free samples; she didn’t ask questions.” Raven walks over to the miniature distillery and places a new tin can underneath the drop spout, taking the full one out and setting a lid on top of it. “We all wanted her dead,” Raven says. “But things take time. You can’t just come in, guns blazing, stir up shit and expect to be the hero.”

Spencer can’t help but feel like the comment is directed at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you should realize that not everything is about you, Spencer. Some of us have been here for years working on how to get out from under Sue.” Raven takes a small hand towel off a hook on the wall and wipes her hands and brow off with it. “I know you’re all proud of figuring out this spider thing and you’re in charge now or whatever,” Raven says, turning to look her in the eye, “I just hope you see that we can handle ourselves. This room was _empty_ when I first got here. And now? We’re ready to fly.” Spencer must look like she’s about to object, because Raven holds her hand up and says, “If you wanna go be the new warden, fine. Just know some of us in here weren’t sitting around waiting to be saved. We’re the ones saving _you_.”

Aphasia and Hermione return with four new jugs, then start heading back out for more. “Feel free to join us any time,” Hermione says to Spencer.

“Right. Sorry.” She breaks away from the awkward conversation with Raven and sheepishly follows them out as they walk in a line back to cell 10. Raven’s words are playing on loop in her head and will be for a long time.

Aphasia lifts the mattress high, enough for Hermione to have room to lean her entire torso into the black hole. She pulls one gallon jug out from the darkness at a time, handing them to Spencer.

“Wait, is this _vodka?”_  she asks. She remembers Aphasia saying they were storing it under her bed. Now she knows why.  And the engine room already reeked of it, so opening a bottle changed nothing.

When everyone has two, Hermione reaches in once more and hands Spencer a third. “No, these are really heavy,” Spencer groans. “I’ll come back for that one.”

“It’ll be faster if you take it now,” Hermione says. “There are twenty-nine total jugs, and we’ve already carried the first eight, leaving twenty-one more. If we each carry two and you carry three, that’s seven jugs per trip, meaning only three trips. But if you don’t, we can only transport six jugs per trip, meaning we’ll have to go a fourth time. And I –”

“Yeah, you could’ve just said ‘please,’ ” Spencer says, and starts out into the hallway. She’s around cell 18 when she looks back and says, “Remember that great floating thing you did the other day? I miss that.”

“Me too,” Hermione says and adjusts the grip on her gallons of moonshine.

It takes another fifteen minutes to complete the last two trips, but then finally all twenty-nine gallons are relocated and stacked in two rows, two-jugs-deep in the corner of the room.

“I don’t want to burn too much on the test run,” Raven says. “I calculate it’ll take a minimum of three gallons just to fire up the rocket jets.”

“There are rocket jets?” Spencer asks skeptically. “The giant uterus has rockets.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Raven says. “This was a fully functioning ship before they gutted it and made it into a prison.”  She seems pretty sick of Spencer’s attitude. “They ripped out the engine and the controls, but they didn’t take off any of the firing systems or the stabilizers. So yeah, if I can get this burning hot enough, we’ll move. Won’t go very fast, but inertia will do the rest.”

Raven reaches into her pocket and takes out what appears to be a small Nokia flip phone, the same one Spencer saw her with before. She punches at the keypad, then reports out, “Yeah, if we burn around five gallons, we should be able to hit a maximum speed of about eighteen kilometers per hour.”

Spencer can’t help but laugh out loud. “Eighteen kilometers per hour? My dog can run faster than that.”

“You ain’t got no dog,” Aphasia says, crossing her arms.

“I’m sorry, Princess,” Raven says, “Did you have a better plan for getting us moving? Or any ideas at all?”

She doesn’t, but it still seems pretty worthless to crawl through the vastness of space slower than you’d drive in a school zone.

“How long will it take us to get to Earth at that rate?” Spencer asks Raven. “Can your little phone count that high? Because I’m pretty sure we’ll all be very dead by that point.”

“Who said anything about going to Earth?” Raven asks.

The question hangs in the room as everyone stares at Spencer.

 “My bad,” she says, holding her hands in the air. “I just figured since it was the only place that could sustain human life within the nearest hundred million miles, that’d be a pretty decent destination.”

“This thing can’t sustain human life?” Aphasia asks, pointing her hand at the walls around them. “You look pretty alive to me.” The _“for now”_  is implied.

“The engine gives us options,” Hermione says. “Not to find a new home, but to possibly evade being caught. If someone finds out what we’ve done with Sue and the others, they would come looking for us here at these coordinates. If we start moving now, we can hopefully be out of range by the time someone notices.”

Spencer balks, “Even at that speed, it would take months for us to get out of sight. There’s nothing to hide behind out here.”

Aphasia looks to Raven. “Guess we better not waste any more time arguing then.”

Raven gives her a nod and hurries excitedly over to stand by the tank, angling a metal container underneath it to its correct position. She looks at Hermione and says, “You want to use the wand?”

Hermione shakes her head. “It’s too risky. I need to practice with it first. I don’t want to botch up your engine.” She reaches for Aphasia’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Find Willow for me, please?”

Five minutes later, Aphasia returns with Dark Willow, who seems even more in awe of the masterpiece than Raven herself. After a quick explanation, Dark Willow seems happy to oblige and summons a small fireball into the metal container, which starts the engine in motion. Spencer sees a series of large medical syringes – swiped from the Infirmary, no doubt – bobbing up and down like pistons into the tank of vodka. The tubes begin filling with hot air as the process continues, and soon, the whole ship is vibrating. Aphasia wasn’t wrong – it’s loud.

“Are we moving?” Spencer asks, looking around for some way to tell.

“Let’s go see,” Raven says with a grin and runs out into the hall. Hermione and Aphasia follow close behind, and Spencer has no choice but to join them.

“You’re welcome!” Dark Willow calls after them with a wave as they run away.

Fifty feet to right is the interrogation room with the wide window. Spencer knows the shark left yesterday, but she approaches the glass cautiously all the same. There’s a general hum throughout the ship, louder at its source but still audible from further away. And as the four girls stand and look out at the wide expanse of the galaxy, somehow it feels even larger now that they’re venturing into it. It feels endless.

“I can’t tell,” Hermione says, squinting and looking at stars and holding very, very still.

“Look, there!” Aphasia points to the small asteroid floating not far from the ship. “See? I think I see us moving! See how it’s going to the left?”

“Holy shit,” Spencer says, watching it carefully. It’s always been in exactly the same place before, so there’s no reason to doubt it’s a fixed point of reference now. “I think it is.” She turns to Raven, truly amazed. “We’re moving.”

Raven grins big and fistpumps, like it’s the happiest day of her life. “YES! Yes!” Then she stands and looks out the window with her hands covering her mouth, as if she’s trying not to cry. “We did it.” Looking over at her friends, she reaches a hand out and squeezes Hermione’s shoulder, then shares a smile with Aphasia. Suddenly her face falls a bit. “We should’ve gotten Greggs. She should see this.”

“Which direction are we going?” Spencer asks.

“Not sure,” Raven says. “I haven’t figured out a way to steer yet.”

“…You didn’t think that was important?” Spencer’s confidence has taken a nosedive. It’s also occurring to her that Raven hasn’t mentioned a braking system.

“The odds of us crashing into anything sizeable are astronomically low,” Raven says. “Especially at this speed. First step was to get moving. Steering is tomorrow’s problem. I’ll play with the stabilizers and figure something out.”

“Pssh,” Aphasia says, “I believe in you, girl. Look what we can do.”

Spencer catches Raven’s eye and silently mouths, “Thank you.”

Still smiling, Raven gives a half-shrug in concession and offer back, “You, too.”

The four women enjoy their well-earned moment together, gazing out at the stars, quietly drifting through space and in charge of their own destiny for the first time. After all the shit they’ve been through, after all the losses, the victories have finally begun. They are alive and free and safe. In a weird way, they’ve become a family. And they have hope for a different future now. All thanks to a brave and powerful witch, the hoarding thief who loves her, a guard willing to take a chance, and a mechanic who could do the impossible.

****************

It takes five minutes for Quinn and Spencer to pick which bed they want to share and only one minute to move their collective worldly possessions the hundred feet down the hall. They eventually settle on top-left, out of habit and nostalgia, and are twenty minutes into taking the new mattress for a test drive when Greggs comes banging on the cell door.

“Spencer, hey, come on. I need your help.” She pounds on the bars a few more times until Spencer emerges from under the sheet and turns to look at her.

Wiping her wet face with the back of her hand, she makes sure Greggs can see in her expression just how pissed she is to be interrupted. “Right now? I’m a little occupied.”

“So’s the docking bay,” Greggs replies. “I can try to get rid of her, or we can send one of the Sue clones out to talk to her, but I didn’t think you wanted to do that yet.”

Spencer’s down on the ground and getting dressed now as fast as she can, fastening her bra behind her and zipping up her jumpsuit. Quinn’s orgasm will have to wait. Neither of them was expecting company to come calling this soon. But hey, maybe it’s just someone selling Girl Scout cookies and everybody wins.

“No, we’re not ready. How the hell did someone get in the docking bay without authorization?” Spencer has no idea how any of that works or who even is supposed to be authorizing that stuff here, but she’s seen it in movies, so it probably applies.

“She comes here so damn much,” Greggs says, “Sue gave her her own code.”

Spencer looks up at Quinn, who’s still on her back with knees bent and spread wide. If this is what Spencer thinks it is, that orgasm is most definitely going to have to wait.

****************

“While it’s certainly lovely to see you again, Quinn, as always, I still don’t understand why Sue isn’t here to greet me herself.”

Quinn and Greggs are standing in the small circuit room outside the docking bay, just two feet from where Spencer watched Sue get swallowed by a giant shark. Their guest, clad once again in black leather and latex from head to her six-inch heels, seems to have no idea she’s only the third most interesting thing that’s happened there so far today.

“She’s sick,” Greggs says. “But inmate Fabray said she had a relationship with you and offered to be your welcoming committee.”

But that comment clearly picks at an old wound. “Hardly much of a relationship when we missed out on potential _years_ together because she wasn’t honest about her feelings for me until graduation,” Mistress Berry says, crossing her arms and staring Quinn down.

“Fine, Rachel,” Quinn says. “You want the truth? Sue’s dead.”

Mistress Berry gasps and holds a hand over her open mouth in a very Old Hollywood kind of way. “That’s terrible!”

“Not really,” Quinn says flatly. “The inmates revolted and overtook the prison yesterday. Sue and all the other guards are dead. We’re in charge now.” There’s a beat, then Quinn nods her head toward Greggs. “She’s helping.”

“Wow…” Mistress Berry raises and drops her eyebrows, happy for them but very thrown by the whole thing. “Congratulations. That’s quite an accomplishment.” She thinks for a moment. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because I know I can trust you.” Quinn’s eyes are shining with sincere warmth. “And because I need you to understand why you can’t come back here anymore.”

That clearly stings, and Mistress Berry flinches at the very suggestion. “Don’t you want my help?”

Greggs speaks up now. “We’re gonna lay low for a while, try not to draw attention to ourselves. And we won’t be taking on any new prisoners, so we won’t have much to offer you.”

“I see,” she says, composing herself as professionally as she can. “Thank you, Officer.”

“If you want to help us,” Quinn says, “corroborate our story. Tell people that everything is business as usual here and that you still talk to Sue.”

“I don’t feel comfortable lying. Even for you.” Mistress Berry finds Quinn’s eyes and something in them makes her say, “But I’ll do it. If that’s what you want.”

“Thank you,” Quinn says softly. With that handled, it suddenly occurs to her why her old crush must be here. “What happened to Katniss?”

“The finest submissive training this side of the Milky Way,” Mistress Berry says with confidence. “Your former cellmate has proved to be a most hard-working and loyal servant. I’m really quite pleased by her performance.”

“She’s still alive?” Quinn asks, sharing a look with Greggs.

“Yes!” Mistress Berry exclaims. “Girls of her strength typically last at least eight to ten months. That’s not why I’m here. I wanted to speak to you.” Her eyes shine with that big smile that lets the other person know they’re about to be asked a favor. “There’s a new group I’m co-leading, a sort of interstellar, a cappella troupe of the highest caliber, and we’re desperately in need of altos. And I thought –”

“No,” Quinn says.

“But we’re really, really good! And we’re performing in only the fanciest performance halls in the galaxy, and I just –”

_“No.”_

Mistress Berry looks hurt and disappointed, but recovers. “Well, if you want me to keep quiet about your lesbian pirate ship, I’m going to need a little something in return.”

“You’re extorting us?” Quinn asks.

“I’m negotiating. After all, I think it only seems fair. And if you won’t share your singing talents, then you’ll have to come up with something of equal or greater value.” She crosses her arms all high-and-mighty in that condescending way that both pissed Quinn off in high school and turned her on.

Thinking for a moment, she offers, “How about another sub? She’s small and feisty and will be incredibly hard to break, but if anyone can do it, you can. It could be your crowning achievement.”

Mistress Berry pauses to consider this, clearly intrigued but not wanting to relent on the Quinn-singing-with-her-again bit too easily. “Do I know her?” Then, she appears struck with a realization and her voice drops suddenly. “It’s not that terrible girl who never bathes and sleeps in the bed under yours, is it? The one named after a truck.” She shivers at the thought.

“No,” Quinn says, hiding a quiet laugh. She pauses for a moment, reflecting on how much fun this is going to be. What a terrific housewarming gift for Spencer! Gesturing for Mistress Berry to follow her out of the room, Quinn says, “Did you ever meet Becky?”

****************

“Oh, _HELL_ no!”

“There’s no way.”

Three days later, the first meeting of the Council of the _Uterius_ ’s New Trust (C.U.N.T.) is in session. They’re huddled in the library around the one and only round table on the ship, which is just barely large enough to hold all ten members: Spencer, Lucy, Aphasia, Hermione, Tastee, Poussey, Greggs, Raven, Delphine, and one Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins. It seems to be a fair sampling, with two members from each gang, two _Uterius_ employees, and two DYAD employees. And they’re already off to a great start, arguing about their very first topic.

“We can’t keep her locked up like our prisoner!” Spencer doesn’t get why she has to plead this case, but she will if she has to.

“She _is_ a prisoner,” Tastee says.

“Not _our_ prisoner!” Spencer retorts. “What are we going to do, hold her at gunpoint every time we want a snack? That’s hardly a long-term solution and one that’ll probably get us poisoned.”

Delphine folds her hands together. “Not to mention a prisoner requires full-time security.”

“Don’t look at me,” Greggs says, leaning back in her chair. “I didn’t risk my life helping y’all just to spend the next few years on Solitary duty with a scary old white lady.”

“You really gonna stay here?” Aphasia asks her. “We thought you’d be gone by now.”

Greggs sighs. “I haven’t decided yet. It’s hard to walk away from a steady paycheck, if we can keep that coming. I don’t mind staying on as security for y’all. But I do really miss my girl.”

“Okay,” Spencer says, making a note on her legal pad, freshly stolen from Sue’s office. “So, we need to figure out what to do with Martha Stewart –”

“It’s _Slewgurt_ ,” Tastee says.

“It’s really not. And we need to find out what paperwork needs to be filed for Greggs’ payroll.”

Poussey says, “That’s all great and stuff, but I’m wondering how we’re gonna get more food to eat. I don’t see much point in having a fancy chef if all she’s got to work with is toilet paper and toothpaste. Assuming we still know how to get more of that, too,” she trails off.

“That’s on my list of things to look into,” Spencer says. “Anything that went through Sue’s office, I’ll handle it.” Underneath the other items, she secretly writes, _Make Sue’s office my office._ It’s more appealing now that the bodies have been removed. Though, she’ll need to figure out if she wants to keep the trophies or not. It’s worth considering.

“What, ‘cause you the new warden now?” Tastee asks, sounding very unimpressed.

“No, because I’ve spent more time than anyone else here filing paperwork for her. I can do this.” Spencer looks around the group and reminds them, “We’re _all_ in charge now, and if we want this to work, we all have a part to play.”

“So, what’s my job? What can I do?” Poussey asks excitedly.

“Um.” Spencer pauses and glance around again, wondering if she’s going to put her life in danger again by telling criminals to do something they don’t want to do. “Whatever you feel comfortable with, I think. Everyone should do what appeals to them.”

“What all do you need?” Delphine asks.

“Let’s make a list,” Spencer says. “Someone has to be in charge of food. Placing orders, overseeing meals, running the cafeteria, handling Martha.”

“They get to pick the food?” Aphasia asks.

“Sure,” Spencer says, unable to think of a reason why not. “Somebody has to.”

“I got that,” Aphasia says. “We gonna have waffles EVERY day.” She looks incredibly pleased with herself.

“Terrific.” Spencer jots down Aphasia’s name and makes a new bullet point. “Somebody needs to be in charge of communication between us and the others. Public relations or press secretary or whatever. An official voice from this group to tell everyone about the decisions we make.”

“I can do that,” Poussey says, looking around. “I like talking to people.”

“I can talk to my girls,” Lucy says. It doesn’t sound defensive, but Spencer worries that having each gang only talk to their people will go against the new sense of interconnectedness that they’re going for.

“Actually,” she says, “I was hoping you’d be interested in taking on something else. As much as I can’t believe I’m suggesting this, I thought maybe you’d want to be in charge of the prison’s vocational program.” When nobody seems to understand what that means, she adds, “The classes.”

Lucy ponders it for a moment, then smiles. “I’d like that.”

“And what should we do?” Delphine asks, nodding to the other doctor. “We spoke before about taking our program in a new direction,” she says to Spencer, carefully. “I’d like to discuss some possibilities of what that might look like.”

“I’d suggest _not_ making killer spiders,” Tastee says rather pointedly.

Greggs looks worried. “Is that the only thing y’all’ve been doing down there?”

“We’ve also been doing groundbreaking work in the field of human cloning,” Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins says proudly.

 _“Cloning?”_  Tastee asks.

“So we heard,” Aphasia glares.

“It’s primarily a facility for genetic research,” Delphine says, “and biological development.”

“ ‘Biological development’?” Poussey asks. “What’s that got to do with prisons?”

“DYAD is a completely separate entity,” Delphine says. “But we do bring in a significant cash flow to the prison, which pays for all your food and clothing and healthcare. But structurally, we simply share the ship, nothing else.” Lucy stares her down hard, which is terrifying enough to get an amendment out of her. “And we also share people.”

“Not anymore, you don’t!” Aphasia snaps.

“And in the interest of sharing,” Spencer says, very cheerfully redirecting the conversation, “I thought maybe you would look into biologically developing some animals that could serve as a food source for everyone. Make chickens or cows or something.”

“ ‘Make cows’?” Delphine asks with a healthy serving of disdain. She looks like she’s never felt so insulted in her life. “We don’t have anywhere near the kind of foundational cellular material for the kind of project, not to mention the logistical space it would require.”

“I don’t know!” Spencer says. “Something we can eat that isn’t people!” However long has passed since the last time they ate BSM burgers, it hasn’t been long enough to get the taste out of her mouth. It will never, ever be long enough.

“Or spiders,” Aphasia adds, pointing her finger.

“Let Lucy help you invent some new animal,” Spencer says, a bit passive-aggressively.

But her sarcasm is lost on the rest of them. “I would love to do that!” Lucy beams. “I’ve been working on many exciting designs.”

Delphine and Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins exchange looks. Delphine’s wary, but the doctor gives her an optimistic shrug. “It’s possible we can try to develop a protein source,” Delphine says carefully. “It would take time, but we can divert some resources and make it a priority.”

“We’d appreciate that,” Spencer says.

Delphine adjusts herself in her seat and sits up straighter, setting her open hands on the table, facing Spencer. “If you’re interested in participating, we could use some extra hands. I was hoping you’d be willing to come work with us. We’ve read your file; we know you were accepted to Georgetown. Have you ever considered a career in biological science?”

Spencer can’t believe what she’s hearing. “You’re serious.” No one’s stepping in to claim otherwise. “You’re offering me a job?”

“An internship, I suppose,” Delphine says. “We can’t pay you, of course, but you’d be working directly with us on all of our projects.”

“Including mine, I hope,” adds Lucy.

Thinking back to that first day she saw the list of “classes,” Spencer wasn’t sure she’d ever get to do real academic work again. Something that challenged her, something rewarding. Now, she can have a direct impact on the future of this prison and get high-level science education and research experience as well. Whether it could be considered “real-world” training is irrelevant at this point. It’s the best opportunity she’s seen since she first set foot here. Not to mention, working downstairs would help her know for sure that they’re not making any more clones of her. She tries to play down her excitement as she smiles and says, “Yeah, sure. I’m in.”

“Speaking of your projects,” Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins says to Delphine, “if we’re going with your plan of using one of Sue’s clones to handle any face-to-face issues with visitors, someone’s going to have to be her handler.” Seeing the confused faces around her, she takes a moment to explain the Sue clone situation to the whole table, then continues. “It’s going to take some work to acclimate her to the prison and teach her to talk knowledgeably like a regular person.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Spencer says. The conversations she had with the clones were far from typical and would blow their cover for sure. “Someone’s going to need to take that on.”

“True,” Poussey agrees.

Everyone in the room quietly nods and avoids eye contact with each other, waiting for someone else to step up. Finally, the silence is broken when Tastee throws her hands up, annoyed, and says, “Fine, I’ll do it. Damn.” She sighs and resigns herself to this awkward task. “I’m just saying, if she tries to get all freaky on me, we gonna have to airlock her saggy ass, too.”

No one seems to have a problem with that.

“What else is on your list?” Hermione asks Spencer.

“Raven, you’re working on improving engine function and steering, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ve got a few ideas so far. But at least we’re moving. I burned through about forty percent of the fuel supply to get us going. Should be somewhere around thirty-eight kilometers per hour. I don’t want to push it further than that if we don’t have to. Some of the components are literally held together by string and tape.”

“Yeah, let’s not push it,” Spencer says. “Thanks for handling that.”

“What can I do?” Hermione asks.

“How’s the new wand working out?”

“We’re getting acquainted,” Hermione says. “I’ve been practicing with small, simple spells – levitation, folding clothes, opening doors, et cetera. Nothing on people yet, not until we’ve built trust.” She’s talking about the wand like it’s a person, which Spencer finds more than a little weird. “If we avoid problems, I might be able to go back soon. If there’s something you need.”

“Possibly, yeah. I mean, I don’t know what all supplies I’ll be able to arrange for myself, so it could be really helpful having a backup plan.” Spencer thinks about the whole teleporting thing – which she’s super jealous of – and has another thought. “Will it be harder to land in the right place now that the ship is moving?”

“The Earth is moving at approximately sixteen _hundred_  kilometers per hour, and I land there just fine,” Hermione says. “I think I can handle whatever we’re doing now.”

“Fair enough,” Spencer concedes. “Let’s hope you don’t have to leave any time soon. And I suggest we start keeping an eye out for some kind of small ship we can commandeer. One like Ripley and Vasquez took. We need a way to make short trips as things come up, ones that don’t rely on teleporting.”

Hermione considers this and agrees. “I can’t be expected to handle every single thing.”

“It _is_ harder for her to appetite when there’s someone with her,” Aphasia adds.

 _“Apparate_ , dear. For the twentieth time, it’s _apparate.”_

Lucy speaks up, turning to Spencer. “Maybe Quinn can ask Mistress Berry if she has an extra cruiser, or where she got hers. Maybe we could offer some kind of trade.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, writing it down. “I’ll ask her.”

“I have another question,” Lucy says, then hesitates. “I’d like to move rooms.”

“Yeah, I don’t see why not,” Spencer says, looking around for any voices of dissention. “I think everything’s fair game at this point; some people have already been shuffling around.” Including herself, of course. “Where did you want to go?”

“Home.” Lucy pauses again, like the word feels foreign in her mouth. “The barracks downstairs are much nicer than the cell block. There should be plenty of room for everyone, especially since some people will want to stay with partners.”

Poussey smiles. “Actual beds?” She turns and gives Tastee a very complicated high-five, absolutely elated.

Lucy nods. “And no more bars. We’re free now, right?”

“Long as nobody takes my room,” Greggs says, “I’m cool.”

“Or mine,” says Dr. Lewis-Burke-Robbins.

Spencer looks at Greggs. “We haven’t cleared most of the rooms on that hall. Do you think you could take a few girls and oversee that? Just making sure there aren’t any more surprises and get us an official count of how many rooms are available for inmates.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” Greggs says.

“I’d need to recode the scanners on all the doors,” Raven says, shifting in her chair. “If other people are moving in there.”

“You can do that?” Spencer asks. The longest day of her life would’ve been a bit shorter if she’d known Raven could get into any door without effort. Spencer’s regretting not getting to know the prison’s Most Valuable Mechanic sooner.

“You’ve got Sue’s master key, right?” Raven asks. “I’ll need it to do a system reset, then we can reconfigure them however we need.”

“Yeah.” Spencer reaches into her sock and pulls out the key card, handing it to Raven. “That’s great, thank you.” She pauses. “I mean, that is, assuming this is what the group wants to do.”

No one offers any desire or reason to stay in the cell block, so the motion passes easily. Spencer can’t wait to tell Quinn they’re going to have a real room all to themselves. “Speaking of Sue’s stuff, something tells me she probably had the biggest room,” she says, then looks at Lucy. “If so, I think you should have it.” She almost adds, _“so you have room for your orgies,”_  but thinks better of it.

“That’s thoughtful,” Lucy replies. “But I think I’d rather go back to my old room. It’d be good to be back in –”

“OH GOD,” Spencer says, jumping out of her seat. Her eyes go as wide as the table she just banged her knee on. “OH MY GOD, YOUR ROOM.” And with that, she takes off running full-speed, praying there’s more left of Santana, Faith, and Buffy than could fill a BSM can.

Everyone watches her go but remains otherwise still and awkwardly quiet.

Aphasia breaks the silence, reassuring everyone, “It’s fine. She locked some people in there with a cannibal a few days ago.”

“Santana’s back?” Poussey says with a casual smile, like an old friend is returning home from college. “How’s she doin’?”

“Oh, she good,” Aphasia says in that same small-talk vibe. “You know, keepin’ it real.”

“That’s good,” Poussey says.

Hermione smiles and looks fondly at her girlfriend. Aphasia wasn’t even there when the group encountered Santana, but Hermione told her the full story later. And now Aphasia’s being absolutely adorable telling others how it went. She’s one of the heroes.

 _“Well,”_  the doctor says, all too happy to cut that conversation short. Her hands falling to her thighs as she looks around at the group. “Sounds like we’re off to a good start. Let’s report out to the population about the move downstairs and reconvene in four days to follow up on any new things that come up. Everybody brainstorm solutions for dealing with Martha and bring updates on your individual projects to share out. Anything else?” Only shrugs and glances around the table. “Ok then. On behalf of Spencer, who I guess isn’t returning any time soon, I declare the first meeting of the C.U.N.T. officially adjourned.”

“Yes,” Delphine says, “good work, everyone,” though it only sounds like she sort of means it.

The first to her feet, Aphasia stands up proudly and announces, “Guys, this is the best cunt I _ever_ been in!”

****************

“Good afternoon, class!”

The chipper and bright voice of Lucy Fabray sings out over the cafeteria as the familiar “Pop Goes the Weasel” plinks its final notes. Strange as it feels to say so, Spencer’s glad this is happening right now. Her first day at Play-Doh Funhouse seemed much scarier than it does now, given all that they’ve seen. This big scoop of whimsy is providing some much-needed levity. Perhaps that’s been the point of it all along.

The paintball mural on the ceiling seems to match nicely with the neon streamers and tablecloths, but otherwise, the setup is the same as it always was. Somehow in the extensive massacre that took place on this ship ten days ago, all the crafting supplies survived unharmed. And even though there’s no real reason to do so, Lucy insisted on keeping enrollment limited to twelve people with a waitlist after. It seems any opportunity to engage in a power dynamic makes her happy, and now that Lucy is in charge of the entire vocational program, no one can tell her to do otherwise.

“As you may have heard, I’m going to be teaming up with the DYAD scientists downstairs to come up with a new species of animal!” There is a polite but hardy round of applause at this. By god, even Spencer is clapping. “And I thought to myself, what truly brings out my innermost creativity?”

“Murder?” Spencer says to Mack next to her.

“Play-Doh, of course!” Lucy is absolutely beaming as she holds up two containers, one in each hand. “So, today, let’s let our imagination be our guide as we design what could become the next superstar of biological development. If you need it, there are pipe cleaners and googly eyes on the front table. After thirty minutes, we’ll do a gallery walk to see if we can get any new ideas from each other.”

Spencer represses the laughter in her chest and purses her lips, letting her undefined-secondary-relationship shine in her element. (It’s much more preferable to Lucy’s other element, the one involving a chainsaw.) Spencer pushes and prods at the clumps of green and purple clay on her wax paper, but nothing particularly inspirational is coming to mind. A few minutes later, Lucy makes her way to their table and exchanges some kind words of praise toward Mack’s creation, which seems to be something like a ten-legged platypus with spines on its back.

“How wonderful!” Lucy says. “That’s definitely a contender.” She moves over to stand in front of Spencer and leans over the table to look her in the eyes. “Having fun?”

“Oh yeah,” Spencer plays along. “Time of my life.” She shifts to sincerity and smiles. “I am looking forward to working with you downstairs. It’ll be fun to see what we can come up with together. Just…” her voice trails off, and she squints a bit with a smirk, “No Tribbles, please. Promise me.”

Lucy leans down further now, like she’s coming in for a kiss, but then diverts her face at the last second. With a dangerous smile, she whispers into Spencer’s ear, “You don’t make the rules, Spencer. I do.”

Fifty-eight minutes later, when class is over and the students have all departed, Spencer sticks around to help Lucy clean up the mess, only to end up a complete mess, herself. It turns out pipe cleaners can make for very effective DIY handcuffs, and green fingerpaint is a lovely color on her breasts. The handprints on her chest and neck won’t wash off easily, but Spencer doesn’t mind. And as Lucy drives two (paint-free) fingers deep inside her, bent over a pink tablecloth in the middle of the room, Spencer smiles against Lucy’s shoulder. If this is the life she’s worked hard for, she’s damn well going to enjoy the moment.

She’ll never have her old life back, the one with Aria and Hanna and Emily and her parents back in Rosewood. The one where she goes to college and becomes a lawyer or climbs some corporate ladder and marries some guy from grad school and gives her mother the grandchildren she always wanted. Some other Spencer is living that now. Maybe she’s sleeping with one eye open, still in the clutches of A’s twisted mind games. Maybe she’s in Radley. It’ll forever be a guessing game.

But Spencer’s missing it less and less each day. There’s something about this place, this new life that she has up here, that’s grown on her. Between the questionable food and ridiculous classes and colorful characters all around her, prison life has become anything but boring. She has new versions of what she left behind – friends, family, school, work, even romance. And purpose. Ambition. Even a possible career. If she’s going to spend the rest of her life in jail, what better place is there to be?

And when the ship rocks with the force of another meteor crashing against the south side, driving Lucy’s fist inextricably inside her, Spencer falls over laughing and wonders how this same lightning has struck her not just once, but twice. But as she looks into Lucy’s adoring eyes, and then into Quinn’s later that night, curled up together in their new, bars-free room, Spencer realizes that she has indeed been struck twice. And she couldn’t be happier.


	69. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the [**map of the Uterius**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/spaceprison/UteriusMap.png) and the [**character photo index**](http://jarrow272.inverteddungeon.com/ALSPcharacters.html).

After a week of negotiations, the C.U.N.T eventually agreed to let Martha Stewart roam free and unguarded, provided she actively worked to improve the quality of meals for everyone. With the Solitary Ward now otherwise uninhabited, Martha turned it into her own three-bedroom apartment. Spencer didn’t make it a priority to go see it for herself, mostly because she was still incredibly intimated by Martha, but also because she heard a rumor that Ripley’s old cell was now a sex dungeon. There was a period of a few months, right after Martha learned about Play-Doh Funhouse for the first time, when she sought to challenge Lucy for the title of Crafting Queen onboard the ship. With no followers of her own, she eventually dropped the competitive play and made nice. In the end, she and Lucy became allies and swapped tips for many years before Martha’s sudden and unfortunate death by choking on a fish stick. Whether her alliance with Lucy was merely a long con to eventually try to retake reign of the crafting world, or if her death was truly an accident, no one ever knew.

Thanks to Spencer’s rescue, Santana and Faith emerged from room G38 relatively healthy, sane, and unharmed. Meaning, they had bellies full of flesh, blood-soaked faces, and growled like feral cats for about a week before returning mostly to normal. There was no trace left of Buffy, and the survivors refused to officially confirm what seemed to be the obvious conclusion. Instead, they chose to mock Spencer and flippantly ask why she didn’t believe that spiders did it. Clarice’s rotten skeleton was dragged out and airlocked, and Lucy moved back in. They didn’t do much in the way of redecorating, or even cleaning, for that matter. Spencer still visited for sessions with Lucy but never let Santana or Faith put their mouths near her again. A few times, Spencer swore she saw Buffy’s blonde hair going around a corner or her face peeking out through a cracked door, but she was just imagining things. Probably.

With the monthly murders over, the _Uterius_ no longer had problems to report and went back to being a normal prison in the eyes of the space government. Well-versed in her verbal patterns, Spencer successfully imitated Sue in written communication and drew no suspicion from the authorities. The Sue clone only had to be used for business purposes twice when random passersby came knocking on the docking bay doors. The President soon lost interest after Spencer crafted a series of overly clingy and codependent-themed messages to her office, and no further attempts were made to book conjugal visits on the _Uterius_. In lieu of this, however, the Sue clone did try to have sex with Tastee on no fewer than eleven occasions.

What remained of Vee’s Gang eventually made peace with the death of their leader and the new collaborative spirit of things, even Suzanne. Jessica Huang was outraged not to get a spot on the council, so, instead, the others agreed to let her be the new leader of their faction. She also insisted on “helping Spencer” with the ship’s new budget, but of course just took it over herself. Through some inventive corner-cutting measures, Jessica helped them afford new items like deodorant and cheese and a subscription to Better Homes & Gardens. She then withheld these items upon delivery and used them as bribes to leverage removal of the number four from the cell block, after which she was more agreeable to work with. The inmate population lived comfortably for many years thanks to her efforts. Never in excess – or in air-conditioning – but comfortable, nevertheless.

Angry Melanie Marcus, the crankiest lawyer this side of Jupiter, managed to find the ship for Spencer’s biannual parole review. However, she was so infuriated by the additional crimes committed that she gave herself a heart attack or an aneurysm or something halfway through the meeting. The inmates kept her space cruiser and used it to make supply runs. Their main supplier became a group of lady space pirates that found the _Uterius_ when hunting Beyoncé the Shark. Fortunately, the captain, a woman named Indra, was an old friend of Octavia’s and willing to broker a deal, offering a year’s worth of food, toiletries, and protection in exchange for a dozen clones of Lucy Diamond. When the deal was secured, Kima Greggs finally went home to rejoin her wife. Within a year, they were expecting their second child.

Two years after the death of their wife, the doctors finally formalized their arrangement with Raven by making her the new third party in their marriage. All three women changed their names to Lewis-Burke-Robbins-Reyes and continued to conduct “business” with Starbuck at least once per week. River regularly hid in the ceiling to watch them until a bounty hunter named Dutch tracked down the Uterius in pursuit of her. Luckily, Moriarty managed to seduce Dutch and convinced her to give up the mercenary life to stay on as a security force for the ship. River just started watching them have sex instead. Once, she found a spider crawling around in the ceiling vents, smashed it with her fist, and ate it. She never told a soul.

It took four misfired spells, two bewitched aquarium tanks, and an entire afternoon for Hermione and Aphasia to unpack the black hole and relocate everything downstairs – in Sue’s former master bedroom. Much to her delight, Aphasia found a pack of five hundred water balloons she’d long forgotten. The additional ammo became an excellent addition to the dodgeball tournaments, especially once Hermione added a self-repairing charm. (The inmates decided the tourneys were the one guard activity worth keeping and held them weekly. Raven even agree to cut the gravity from time to time.) Aphasia and Hermione spent many happy years with Quinn and Spencer next door, and the four remained close friends.

Ripley and Vasquez came back to visit the _Uterius_ every Christmas. It took a few years for the inmates to trust that nobody would be murdered, but eventually they embraced their return as a new annual tradition. However, the inmates did _not_ embrace Vasquez’s insistence they take all turns sitting on her lap to say what they wanted for being such bad, bad girls all year.

Mistress Berry didn’t obey the order not to return to the _Uterius_ and kept attempting to recruit Quinn to her interstellar a cappella group. Quinn eventually relented when Rachel promised that they would never perform a Madonna song, _ever_. Power Hour was replaced by Beyoncé All Day, blasting from noon to midnight every Sunday. Meanwhile, Beyoncé the Shark lived to be over one hundred years old, completing close to two billion laps around the _Uterius_ during her lifetime.

Quinn and Lucy Fabray were never the best of friends, but they did have a newfound sense of respect and understanding after the mutiny. Maybe it was the shared sense of surviving something, maybe it was the polyamorous relationship with Spencer. Quinn even considered joining Lucy’s class one day during an extreme fit of boredom. (She also quit smoking when it, too, could no longer hold her attention.) When the library ran out of romance novels she hadn’t yet read, Quinn decided to write her own. She titled it _Wrist Deep_.

Though she never killed again, she did convince Mack to try breath play during their spank sessions. Quinn never failed to knock her unconscious, intentionally or not, which was satisfying enough. And for about 3 months, Quinn became strangely obsessed with the idea of stealing a baby, even going so far as to hijack the cruiser and go on smuggling missions. Fortunately, once she accumulated a total of forty-eight babies (stashed in her former cell), she became bored yet again and traded them to Dutch for fifteen percent of her collected bounties. Truly, the only thing Quinn never grew tired of was being with Spencer, though that was far too cheesy for her to ever admit.

Though heartbroken after the infamous battle that resulted in a total loss of her winged companions, Idgie was even more devastated to hear they could not be replaced. Hermione brought the bad news – Earth’s bee population has now gone extinct. After a destructive rampage and an excessive amount of drinking, Idgie decided to start an animal rights activism movement on the _Uterius_. Lucy was first to join, and together they held protests and rallies that attracted as many as a half-dozen people. Beyoncé notwithstanding, neither woman ever saw another live animal again.

In addition to expanding the vocational program to include new classes like Leather and, later, Rodents, Lucy converted cell 1 into her own personal art museum. Every Monday, she made Faith pose nude while she sculpted her Play-Doh, and of course, slapped the shit out of her at the slightest hint of movement. It resulted in some of the finest work of her lifetime.

Spencer Hastings went on to become the best scientist DYAD ever had. Well, maybe not _the_ very best, but probably one of them. Definitely in the top twenty. But she never fully laid her paranoid instincts to rest, never fully let her guard down. You can take the girl out of Rosewood, as the saying goes. After all, two days after being offered the internship at the first council meeting, Spencer found a sealed envelope waiting on the floor of the cell when she woke up. Inside was a simple white card:

## THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story took 4 years to write, off and on in bursts. Believe it or not, it was only supposed to be a smutty one-shot. For the first year or so, I had a co-author, my dear friend halfabagoffritos. We wanted to create an “ultimate angerbang” by getting some favorite angsty characters together – Spencer, Quinn, Santana, and Faith – for a big angry orgy. But how to get them all in one place? Well, why not put them in prison? And in space! Because why not. 
> 
> Once we had that starting point, we tried giving a little backstory for Spencer to lead up to it. In an attempt to make it as cracky as possible, we threw in character of Charlotte the spider, inspired by [**a funny piece of kid writing**](http://tgifemslash.com/assets/images/spaceprison/spaceprison.jpg). Instead of, “it turned out she was a nice person,” it looks like it says, “it turned out she was in sex prison.”
> 
> The whole murder mystery aspect grew from that, and the story only became more complex as we added characters and storylines to incorporate fun new elements. When the first chapters were written, no one had even heard of Orphan Black, Orange is the New Black, or The 100, three shows that would eventually become integral to the plot. I never let myself find a ceiling of ridiculousness or decide a storyline was too weird. After all, this story is based primarily on Pretty Little Liars and Glee. That said, I did try very hard to maintain sequence and continuity within absurdity. If the overarching mantra was, “Sure, why not?”, the challenge as a writer then became how to provide a rational (and if possible, canonical) explanation within the universe I created for that thing to occur. Even with magic and science fiction, there are still rules, even if I’m making them up. Everything had to make sense.
> 
> We posted the first eleven chapters as we wrote them, but then realized the plot was actually Becoming Something, and we didn’t quite know what it was going to be yet. So, we stopped posting but kept writing, giving us the freedom to play with many ideas and not have to ret-con ourselves. Thank goodness we did, because the story only got bigger and wackier over the years. Fritos eventually had to drop out of co-writing but gave me her blessing, and the saga of space prison continued on. 
> 
> For all initial intentions of writing a smut one-shot, in the end the actual sex portions of the story amount to about five percent of the fic. Who knew?
> 
> This is by far the biggest thing I’ve ever done. Previously, my longest finished fic was less than 10k. I’ve seen writers and filmmakers talk about having a story inside them that they just had to tell, and I didn’t truly understand how that felt until now. For whatever reasons, this story refused to ever lessen its grip on me, and likewise I refused to let it go. It’s in my heart and a part of me. I’ll surely never do anything else of this magnitude again, and I’ll always treasure the four years of my life that I got to spend thinking about this story and tinkering with it. It has delighted me and challenged me and pushed me beyond what I thought I could do, and for that I am grateful. And while I’m proud of what I’ve created, a part of me will always be sad that the ride is over.
> 
> My greatest hope is that you have enjoyed this story as I have. My goal, above all, was to take the reader on a ride and create laughter. If I have accomplished that, then I have succeeded. Thank you for reading and supporting fanfiction writers.
> 
> If you are so inclined, there is an official soundtrack! It's on [**Spotify**](https://open.spotify.com/user/jarrow272/playlist/7KDWpr5l8JQ9d39qVU4TXQ); here's the playlist:
> 
> 1\. "Strange Times" - The Black Keys  
> 2\. "Move Bitch" - Disturbing Tha Peace  
> 3\. "You're Not Alone" - Saosin  
> 4\. "Express Yourself" - Madonna  
> 5\. "This Used to Be My Playground" - Madonna  
> 6\. "Bad Girls" - M.I.A.  
> 7\. "S&M" - Rihanna  
> 8\. "Hung Up" - Madonna  
> 9\. "La Isla Bonita" - Madonna  
> 10\. "If You Only Knew" - Shinedown  
> 11\. "One Moment More" - Mindy Smith  
> 12\. "Spiderwebs" - The Mowgli's  
> 13\. "Live to Tell" - Madonna  
> 14\. "Heathens" - twenty one pilots  
> 15\. "Crime" - Art of Dying  
> 16\. "The Sound of Violence (Tha Trickaz Remix)" - Cassius  
> 17\. "Believer" - Imagine Dragons  
> 18\. "Give It 2 Me" - Madonna  
> 19\. "Photograph" - Nickelback  
> 20\. "Last Hope" - Paramore  
> 21\. "Teeth" - Lady Gaga  
> 22\. "Cherish" - Madonna  
> 23\. "The Dog is Black" - Unkle  
> 24\. "Rollercoaster" - Bleachers  
> 25\. "GDFR" - Flo Rida  
> 26\. "Spider Dance" - Toby Fox  
> 27\. "Ray of Light" - Madonna  
> 28\. "The Girl" - City and Colour  
> 29\. "Forward Motion" - Thousand Foot Krutch  
> 30\. "Run the World (Girls)" - Beyoncé
> 
> Songs are arranged chronologically to align with characters or references in the story. Try to identify them all, whee!


End file.
